Quatre MacLeod: The Highlander
by Ravena Kaiou
Summary: A novelizaton of the first Highlander movie using characters from the anime Gundam Wing.
1. Conflict at the Gardens

Gundam Wing: The Highlander  
CHAPTER 1 - Conflict at the Gardens  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
Author: Ravena Kaiou  
Email: KakyuuStarLt@aol.com  
Genre: Sci-fi/Action  
Crossovers: The Highlander/Gundam Wing  
Warnings: OOC, language, violence, 4xR.  
Disclaimer: This series is meant to be a novelization of the Highlander Movie using Gundam Wing characters. Some things have been changed a bit, others have not. Highlander belongs to Rysher Entertainment, Gundam Wing belongs to Sunrise Animation. Don't sue me! *sobs*  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
"Gretsky steals the puck and streaks across the ice...two defenders down, he shoots, HE SCORES!"  
  
Immediately, the fans of the Edmonton Oilers that were watching the game that day jumped to their feet, bellowing wildly with approval. The scoreboard hanging over the ice changed to read 'Oilers 6, Rangers 0,' causing those cheering for the New York Rangers that day to let out a collective sigh of disappointment.  
  
But one spectator stood out from the rest.  
  
Clad in a palette of black, the silent man adjusted his overcoat and fidgeted with his scarf, seemingly unmoved by the din around him. Perhaps it was the aura of power and charisma that seemed to surround him which set him apart, or even the hypnotic gaze he cast with his Prussian blue eyes as the defenders for the Rangers slammed Gretsky to the wall, punching and kicking the hockey player.  
  
Shouting players of each team stormed their way onto the ice, the metal blades of their skates clacking and reflecting the arena's lights as they swung their sticks in a brutal free-for-all.  
  
The silent man merely remained composed and collected as the rest of the crowd leapt to their feet, cheering madly at the scene below them on the ice.  
  
"Helluva fight, ain't it? Yeah, helluva fight," a slurred voice said in his ear. "Lotta fun, ain't it?"  
  
The man just slightly recoiled at the smell of alcohol that wafted from his neighbour's breath and clothing. He was too busy watching the fight to worry about his environment.  
  
In his mind, the brawling players became fifteenth-century highlanders, their hockey sticks transforming into broadswords clashing in a vicious battle. To him, the arena was now a field of rocks and heather set in the shadow of towering mountains, and the cheers of the crowd the sounds of whinnying horses, agonized cries, ringing steel, and the frantic skirling of the bagpipes.  
  
A familiar voice cut into the man's thoughts. "Let's go belt the shit out of somebody, then I'll buy you a drink. Whaddya say?" the drunk slurred.  
  
The scene that had played through the stranger's mind once again became a twentieth century hockey riot. He scanned the crowd briefly, then like a predator catching a scent, he walked off, his pace quickening with each step taken.  
  
The drunk was not going to stand for this. "Hey! Where ya goin', buddy?" he called to the retreating figure. The silent man did not even look back.  
  
After a short while, the man found himself striding swiftly past row after row of cars, his footsteps echoing in the Garden's underground garage. He could sense a presence very close to him...  
  
Suddenly a man's silhouette appeared in one of the tunnels, his hot breath making weird ghosts in the arctic air.  
  
"MacLeod," the man's voice boomed.  
  
Without any warning, a huge sword appeared in the shadowy stranger's hands. He swung once, but MacLeod deftly sidestepped the blow, instead drawing his own weapon from inside his coat.  
  
A Samurai sword with carved handguard, its blade sharp as a razor and light as a feather.  
  
The other man raised his sword above his head, the blade of it slamming into the concrete ceiling, causing chunks of stone to rain down from above him. MacLeod fanned his blade and struck like lightning.  
  
But his opponent was quicker, as the two swords clanged in the tunnel, pulverizing cars and gouging columns in impossibly brilliant showers of sparks. In the distance was the sound of running feet, shouting voices, and far-off sirens.  
  
It seemed that this was enough to distract the second man, as he soon fell to his knees thanks to a kick from MacLeod. Seeing his chance, MacLeod surged forward and dropped the sword's blade down onto the man's neck.  
  
There was a faint swish as the blade sliced through his flesh easily, followed by the thunk of his head on the cold cement floor...and then silence.  
  
But only for a moment.  
  
A shimmering energy, like a sudden electrical storm, surged between the corpse and MacLeod. Macleod leaned his head back, screaming as it surrounded his body, his voice lost in the explosion of windshields and cacophony of sirens that were closing in on him.  
  
As quickly as it had begun, the energy disappeared, and MacLeod dropped to his knees, panting heavily and soaked with sweat.  
  
"Over here--!" a voice called.  
  
MacLeod looked up sharply and got to his feet, Samurai sword in one hand, then sprinted off in the direction opposite the voice.  
  
He raced through the garage, ignoring the scream of a woman that came from somewhere behind him. Desparate to find an escape, he hid his weapon in a roof duct hidden by the tiles, driving it out of sight.  
  
The arena was oblivious to the drama that was taking place beneath it. New York had just scored a goal, raising the fans into a wild cheer. To MacLeod, the sound distorted itself to become the voices of so many cheering villages lining a road at Loch Shiel in the Scottish Highlands. The stone giant known as Glamis Castle towered over the thatched huts that dotted the shore of the Loch.  
  
The castle's drawbridge crashed down like a peal of thunder, the skirling of bagpipes and drums soon drowning out the resonating sound as two hundred strong men swarmed out to battle in tartan cloaks. This was the Clan MacLeod, with their bronze shields and claymores flashing in the sunlight.  
  
A hatchet-faced man, Father Dermail, began to chant prayers for the clan. "God bless our brave heroes," he intoned. "May this year of Our Lord 1536 bring victory to the Clan MacLeod."  
  
The villagers cheered loudly. "Death and damnation to the Fraziers!" they cried. "Long live the Clan MacLeod!"  
  
Going along with the rest of the warriors was the ice hockey spectator, 466 years before his visit to Madison Square Garden, yet apparently of the same age. Here he was the rough-hewn Quatre, with eyes alight yet not possessing the quiet strength they would in his later years. His huge claymore sword was strapped to his side, the sunlight dancing across the single word "MACLEOD" that was carved into its blade.  
  
With him were two older clansmen; Trowa was his cousin, short with arms thick like trees, and Rashid, bulky and bearded.  
  
"Are ye scared, Quatre?" Trowa shouted over the din.  
  
Quatre was indeed scared, but he would rather have submitted to a Frazier dog than looked like a coward in front of the others. "Nay, Cousin Trowa, I'm not!" he called back. It was a lie, and all three of them knew it.  
  
Rashid laughed. "Don't talk rubbish, lad. I peed my kilt the first time I rode to battle."  
  
"Ah, but Rashid pees his kilt all the time," joked Trowa.  
  
MacLeod laughed in an attempt to hide his nervousness.  
  
A pretty girl named Relena raced down the column of warriors, holding a bouquet of wildflowers high above her head. Quatre swept her up in a kiss, and she planted the flowers in his hat and then jumped back down excitedly, walking alongside the rest of the clan.  
  
Trowa smiled. "A girl like that can wound a soldier more than a Frazier's sword, my friend," he continued to his cousin.  
  
Relena playfully frowned at the man. "Rashid, you and Trowa bring him back in one piece. D'ye hear?" she ordered.  
  
"Aye, we know which piece ye want, lassie," Trowa laughed.  
  
Rashid roared with laughter as the drums and bagpipes continued playing their rousing melodies.  
  
On a nearby hill, a shadowy hulk astride a massive black stallion watched the Clan MacLeod advance into the gathering moorish fog below. This was the Khushrenada, a frightening man with flashing eyes and a cruel mouth.  
  
Frazier chief Milliardo galloped up to the man.  
  
"Is the one called Quatre among them?" Khushrenada asked quietly.  
  
"Aye."  
  
Khushrenada let out a low chuckle. "Remember our pact. The boy is mine."  
  
Milliardo nodded, his fear of the giant flashing across his eyes for just one moment.  
  
The battle cries and frenzied pipes of the MacLeod and Frazier clans rose up from the valley below.  
  
"It's begun!" Millardo cried. "Death to the MacLeods!"  
  
With that, the Khushrenada and his kinsman charged.  
  
And so was the battle of Loch Shiel.  
  
The MacLeods and the Fraziers collided in fury. Raging carnage swept across the battlefield, fog slowly moving in and licking at the ankles of the warriors.  
  
Quatre, Trowa, and Rashid were in the thick of the fight. Even though he made several attempts to engage the enemy, each time they avoided Quatre.   
  
Trowa found himself helplessly trapped beneath three Fraziers. Acting quickly, Rashid flew down from his saddle and killed two of them, leaving the third to run with his tail between his legs.  
  
The fog that was so unimportant before now was beginning to make it impossible to see more than a few yards ahead. Each man's battle now became his own, hopelessly separated from the help of his kinsmen battling around him.  
  
A wild-eyed Quatre leapt off of his horse and straight to his cousin Trowa. "Nobody will fight me!" he cried. "They all run away!"  
  
Trowa grinned. "Great, laddie. Stay by me."  
  
Suddenly, a hulking giant on a black stallion came thundering down on them, sword wheeling as an unstoppable blade, butchering everything in its path.  
  
Quatre was transfixed by the scene. "Mother of God--!" he cried, feeling dizziness overcome him as Trowa was knocked senseless and his own shield disintegrated.  
  
With a snarl, the Khushrenada leapt from his horse and drove the cruel blade into Quatre's stomach. Mortally wounded, Quatre dropped to his knees, vainly swinging at the ghastly spectre. The Khushrenada merely swatted away his sword as if it were a toothpick.  
  
Relishing the moment, the Khushrenada raised his blade high, his voice grating in triumph.  
  
"There can be only one," he says quietly to his helpless victim.  
  
To Quatre, time hung suspended. Lost in the blackness of the Khushrenada's eyes, he prepared to meet his maker.  
  
But at the last second, Trowa, Rashid, and the others appeared, pile-driving the Khushrenada back over dying clansmen that littered the field.  
  
"Another time, Highlander," the Khushrenada laughed. "Another time."  
  
As his life ebbed away, Quatre groaned and stared up at the sky, which was oddly blue in contrast to his own blood that stained the field below.  
  
The sound of police cruisers screeching to a halt chased away these images. Sirens died as the exit tunnel was blocked. Police officers piled out of their cars, guns drawn.  
  
Headlights appeared as a BMW crested the ramp at 60, saw the block, and squealed to a smoking stop. The officers took aim.  
  
"Get out of the car! Put your hands on the hood!" commanding officer Wu Fei Chang yelled. When he got no response from the driver, he became even more agitated. "Move, dammit!"  
  
Quatre hesitated for a moment before obeying the officer's order. As he stepped out of the car he was overtaken and thrust against the hood as he was frisked by several of the police.  
  
Officer Septum was the one to find the wallet. He opened it to reveal Quatre's photo, name and address.  
  
"Quatre Raberba-Winner, 1182 Hudson Street, New York, New York, 10013." He closed the wallet and shone a light into the suspects eyes, noting how bottomless and unafraid they seemed to be.  
  
"Well, Mr. Winner, suppose you tell me where you were going in such a hurry?" Septum asked, grabbing his arm and attempting to handcuff him.  
  
Bad idea.  
  
Quatre hurled him away, causing the officer to fall flat on his ass.  
  
A swarm of officers swept over Quatre, slamming his face into the windshield. An enraged Septum staggered to his feet, jamming his .45 into the suspect's neck.  
  
"Don't move, asshole," he hissed angrily. "Don't even breathe."  
  
Another cruiser arrived, its dying siren becoming the sound of a lone piper on the turret of Glamis Castle, his mournful lament rising to the stars above.  
  
Inside a small nearby hut, Quatre MacLeod lay on his trestle bed, his torso rising and falling heavily as he breathed his last. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows across Relena's face as she kneeled by the bed, making her look so much older than she was. The battle-scarred Trowa and Rashid stood nearby.  
  
Father Dermail bent over Quatre's quivering body and made the sign of the cross. "In nomine patri, et fili et spiritus sancti. Amen," he chanted as he got up to leave. "It is over. Other men are dying this day, and I must attend to them."  
  
Relena, who had been keeping her emotions tightly bottled up inside of her, collapsed to the floor, weeping pitifully. Trowa and Rashid gently led her away.  
  
"He's a Highlander, by God," Rashid said quietly. "The last sound he hears shall not be a wailing woman."  
  
As they left, flickering shadows played over Quatre's body, whose laboured breaths finally faded away into the night air. 


	2. A Fateful Arrest

Gundam Wing: The Highlander  
CHAPTER 2 - A Fateful Arrest  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
Author: Ravena Kaiou  
Email: KakyuuStarLt@aol.com  
Genre: Sci-fi/Action  
Crossovers: The Highlander/Gundam Wing  
Warnings: OOC, language, violence.  
Disclaimer: This series is meant to be a novelization of the Highlander Movie using Gundam Wing characters. Some things have been changed a bit, others have not. Highlander belongs to Rysher Entertainment, Gundam Wing belongs to Sunrise Animation. "Gimme the Prize" belongs to the surviving members of Queen. Don't sue me! *sobs*  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
Lieutenant Heero Yuy stood in the garage beneath the Garden as a sudden rush of adrenaline caused his breathing to intensify, much like it did every time he and the rest of the homicide divison was called out. He was a bulky man, clad in a raincoat and hat, with only six months left to pension.   
  
Next to him in the underground cavern was detective Duo Maxwell, a tough, honest man, and something of a friend to Yuy. The lieutenant glanced at his comrade in a silent greeting, then turned his attention back to the torso which lay just a few feet away from them.  
  
The head was just a few feet farther.  
  
Television crew cameras jostled under the weak lights of the garage as hockey fans swelled behind the barricades.   
  
"Hey! When can we get our goddamn cars?" an obnoxious spectator called out to the two men.  
  
Maxwell and Yuy ignored the man's question as Hilde Schbeiker shoved her way through the crowd and ducked the barrier in one swift, graceful movement. It struck some people as odd that a beautiful woman like Hilde would choose a career in forensics, yet the bags of equipment that she carried were carried with pride.  
  
Mueller Lebowsky, the head of the coroner's office with wild hair and a pasty complexion, took flash pictures of the grisly scene almost gleefully.  
  
"Damn it, Heero," Hilde hissed as she stepped next to the lieutenant, "Forensics is supposed to be notified the same time as Homicide!"  
  
She noticed the corpse and grimaced slightly. "What a mess," she mumbled, absently running one hand through her short black hair.  
  
Yuy grinned. "Yep. This one came 'some assembly required.'"   
  
A throaty laugh came from Lebowsky.  
  
Hilde rolled her eyes at the morbid joke. "So? Have you made an arrest?"  
  
Heero nodded, his blue eyes flashing as he did so. "Yeah. Some antique dealer named Winner on Hudson Street."  
  
Hilde sighed and moved away, examining a row of cars with particular interest in the blitzed windshields. "What the hell happened here?" she wondered aloud.  
  
Beside the body, Lebowsky was taking his final shots. As he snapped the last photo, he winked at Maxwell.  
  
"How come you're not asking me the cause of death, Duo?" he said with a smirk.  
  
Heero's expression hardened as he ignored Duo's chuckle. "Cut the crap, Lebowsky," he ordered. "What time did he bite it?"  
  
Lebowsky kneeled down to examine the corpse and checked his watch. After a moment, he stood back up and brushed his pants off. "I'd say ten, ten-thirty...and whatever made this cut was razor-sharp."  
  
Duo gestured towards the corpse. "Heero, wasn't there something on the teletype about a guy who killed in Jersey two nights ago, just like this?"  
  
Heero merely scratched his head in wonder.  
  
Meanwhile, behind a parked Corvette, Hilde froze as she stared down at a huge sword.  
  
"Hey, Heero! Duo! Look at this!" she called, waving the men over.  
  
Yuy and Maxwell made their way across the garage in a quick pace and joined the woman.  
  
Hilde carefully turned the sword over to show its blade. "It's a Toledo-Salamanca."  
  
Heero blinked. "A what?"  
  
The young woman grinned as she dusted the jeweled hilt for prints. "A sword, Heero," she explained. "A very rare sword."  
  
He nodded thoughtfully. "Worth much?"  
  
"Only about a million bucks," Hilde said, standing up. "Any antique dealer with a shop on Hudson Street could tell you that."  
  
Back at the police station, Quatre was sitting in a room, awaiting his fate. Paint was peeling off of the dingy walls, occasionally flaking onto the ancient tape recorder that rested on the beaten-up table.  
  
Septum, the officer who had booked him, leaned against a wall, his fist itching to get even with the suspect.  
  
Quatre suddenly stared at him, causing the officer to shiver. //This guy's eyes are like lasers,// Septum thought, looking away.  
  
As if on cue, Heero and Duo entered the room, slamming the door shut. Heero held a package and a folder as Duo joined Septum against the wall.  
  
Heero sat down across from Quatre, leaving the package by his chair. He clicked the tape recorder on and opened up the folder. Inside was a wallet, money, and a driver's license issued to Quatre Raberba-Winner.  
  
He tossed a mug shot of a swarthy man onto the table. "Ever seen this guy before, Winner?" he asked.  
  
Quatre shook his head.  
  
Yuy smirked. "Name's Osta Vazilek. Bulgarian national. Got his head chopped off two nights ago in Jersey." He paused to unwrap the package. "Ever get over to Jersey, Winner?"  
  
The suspect shook his head again. "Not if I can help it."  
  
Yuy didn't laugh. "You're an antique dealer, right?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Heero laid the jewelled sword down onto the table. "Then maybe you can tell me what this is."  
  
Quatre blinked. "It's a sword."  
  
The officer nodded as he checked his notes. "Not just any sword. It's a Toledo-Salamanca broadsword. Worth a million bucks," he responded.  
  
By now, Quatre could tell where this was going. He shrugged his shoulders. "So?" he asked.  
  
Heero leaned on his elbows. "You wanna hear a theory?" He didn't bother waiting for the suspect's response. "You went down to the garage to buy this sword from some guy. What was his name?" the officer asked quickly.  
  
"I don't know, you tell me," Quatre answered just as easily.  
  
Heero leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. "His name was Iman Fasil. You fought about the price. Then you cut off his head."  
  
Quatre closed his eyes for a brief moment, then reopened them. "Wanna hear another theory?" he asked.  
  
Heero nodded.  
  
"This Fasil guy was so upset by the Rangers' lousy performance tonight that he went down to the garage and in a fit of depression cut off his own head."  
  
Maxwell laughed.  
  
Heero glared at his comrade. "That ain't funny, Duo," he warned.  
  
Septum, who had been waiting patiently all this time, could control himself no longer. "You a faggot, Winner?" he asked.  
  
"Why? You cruising for ass?" Quatre retorted.  
  
Septum was unshaken. He leaned in close to the suspect's face. "I'll tell you what happened, Quatre. You went down to the garage, looking for a hand-job, and just didn't want to pay for it."  
  
"You're sick," Quatre stated calmly.  
  
That was enough. Septum swung at the man. Quatre kicked the table aside and jumped up, smashing his fist into his attacker's sternum.  
  
As Septum fell, Heero was on him in a flash, keeping one knee on his chest. Maxwell struggled to restrain Quatre.  
  
"Calm down!" Heero shouted as Septum thrashed beneath him. "I mean, it dammit!"  
  
Quatre flung Duo off of him and picked up his wallet. "Am I under arrest?"  
  
There was no answer.  
  
The antique dealer smiled cheerfully. "Then I'm through," he said, walking to the door.  
  
"Winner, we're just getting started," Heero called, but it was too late. The suspect had already left.  
  
Seeing no further danger, Heero let up on Septum. Septum struggled to his feet, wincing as he massaged his sore chest.   
  
"Jesus, that guy hits like a train," he gasped.  
  
"Shut up, Septum," Heero snapped. "I'll deal with you in a minute."  
  
He turned to Duo. "Tail him, Maxwell. And try and pay attention. That sucker's as cool as ice."  
  
Maxwell nodded and left as Heero turned to Septum. "Now as for you..."  
  
Outside the station, Quatre stepped into the cool night air. He was oblivious to the traffic as his eyes scanned the darkness. He sensed something as he turned south, looking towards Jersey.  
  
Somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike, a tan Cutlass was knifing its way through the night. Behind the wheel was a chilling specter.  
  
The Khushrenada. A man with shark's eyes and short curly hair.  
  
Like Quatre, he hadn't aged a bit, but a hideous scar ran from ear-to-ear across his throat. The injury had affected his voice, transforming it into a horrible metallic gurgle. He smirked as he flipped the radio on. It was time for the evening news.  
  
"Police arrested a man at the decapitation secene in Madison Square Garden," the newscaster's disembodied voice rang throughout the car. "They have not yet released his name."  
  
Satisfied, Khushrenada turned off the radio. "I know his name," he laughed, his metallic gargle even more grating than before.  
  
He slammed a cassette tape into the car's deck, a high-decibel, heavy-metal rock song with a raving singer and shrieking guitars.   
  
"Here I am, I'm the master of your destiny," the singer warbled.  
  
The Cutlass whipped past a sign that read "You are now leaving New Jersey, The Garden State. Hope you enjoyed your stay!"  
  
Khushrenada smiled grotesquely.  
  
"I had a better time than Osta Vazilek. That's for sure," he laughed, his voice sounding like nails on a slate.  
  
"....I am the one, the only one, I am the God of kingdom come, gimme the prize..." the radio blared as it faded off into the distance. 


	3. The Chase For The Sword

Gundam Wing: The Highlander  
CHAPTER 3 - The Chase For The Sword  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
Author: Ravena Kaiou  
Email: KakyuuStarLt@aol.com  
Genre: Sci-fi/Action  
Crossovers: The Highlander/Gundam Wing  
Warnings: OOC, language, violence, hints of 4xH.  
Disclaimer: This series is meant to be a novelization of the Highlander Movie using Gundam Wing characters. Some things have been changed a bit, others have not. Highlander belongs to Rysher Entertainment, Gundam Wing belongs to Sunrise Animation. Don't sue me! *sobs*  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
Back at the police station, Hilde sat at a spectrograph, meticulously placing metal shards beneath a lens. She clamped a few wires to them and started up a nearby machine. There was a humming sound and a crackling arc appeared as she quickly checked her computer and began snapping photos.   
  
Once she had taken a roll of pictures, she waited for the arc to die. Her patience prevailed as the printer spit out a roll of data. She set the camera down carefully on the edge of the desk and studied the printout.  
  
"It's not possible," she breathed.  
  
Incredulous, she ran the test again. It ended in the same result.  
  
"Son of a bitch," she muttered, grabbing her coat and bag and heading for the door.  
  
Meanwhile, detective Maxwell was busy following Quatre along Central Park South. Hungry and tired, he trudged down Broadway and past various bums, porno-pits, and blinding neon signs.  
  
The man was considering giving up his pursuit when the suspect descended the stairs to the subway and began picking up speed.  
  
A sudden spurt of adrenaline raced through Duo's body as he, too, quickened his pace and tore down the stairs. When he reached the tracks, he couldn't believe his eyes.  
  
The platform was completely deserted.  
  
Hilde turned her red Pontiac south on 5th Avenue, maneuvering it as deftly as she could through the late-night traffic. She aimlessly tapped her hands on the steering wheel in time to the Lionel Ritchie song playing on the radio.  
  
She turned west on 34th, arriving at Madison Square Garden. She parked on the street, pulled the keys out of the ignition, and got out, taking a bag with her.  
  
The young woman's eyes glistened with an emotion somewhere between excitement and fear as she walked through the garage, the beam of her flashlight piercing the murky darkness. She shivered briefly as she reached the spot where Fasil had been killed.  
  
In another part of the garage, there was the flare of a lighter as Quatre's face was illuminated by the yellow dancing flame. Reaching into the roof-duct hidden by the tiles, he pulled out his Samurai sword, grinning triumphantly.  
  
His smile faded as he noticed the chipped edge and missing pieces. To protect it from further harm, he slid it into a sheath concealed inside his coat.  
  
Footsteps echoed in the garage.  
  
Quatre jerked his head up like an animal, trying to decide what to do. After a few moments, he snuffed the lighter.  
  
Meanwhile, Hilde was guiding a metal-detector across the floor, sweeping it across the chalk outlines where Fasil's corpse used to be. Somewhere near one of the columns, a red light blinked on the device.  
  
Cradling the flash, Hilde bent down and removed the miniscule shards of metal with a scalpel, dropping them into a plastic bag.  
  
But she wasn't alone.   
  
Quatre watched the woman's expedition from the shadows, quietly so as not to frighten her. When he moved his arm, a faint clank emanated from the sword hidden in his coat.  
  
Hilde's senses leapt to attention as she heard the distant clank. She whirled her flashlight up the tunnel. "Who's there?" she demanded.  
  
Silence.  
  
Even though she received no answer, she could feel that something was down in the garage with her. Trying to control her panic, she headed for the exit, running faster and faster with each step.  
  
The woman broke out onto the street and dashed to her car, trying to unlock her Pontiac with shaking hands. Her heart racing a mile a minute, she dropped the keys onto the sidewalk.  
  
"Goddamnit," she cursed as she retrieved them and opened the door. Once inside, she roared off to P.J. Clarke's for a drink. She needed it tonight.  
  
Hilde strode into the almost empty bar and looked at her watch. It was shortly after one o'clock in the morning.  
  
She took a corner table, trying frantically to calm herself down. The waitress, Catherine, appeared with a smile on her face as she recognized her regular customer.  
  
"Hey, Hilde. What can I get you?" she asked.  
  
Hilde sighed and leaned her forehead on her hand. "Vodka. Lots of it."  
  
As Catherine left, Hilde removed the plastic bag from her purse and opened it, tipping a metal shard into her still-trembling hand.  
  
She was so involved in her activity that she didn't notice when Quatre Raberba-Winner entered the bar. He looked around and, spotting Hilde, sat down in a nearby booth, watching as Catherine re-appeared by the investigator's table with a bottle of vodka.  
  
"Say when," Catherine said, pouring the liquid into a glass. Hilde watched until the glass was three-quarters full.  
  
"When," she said with a slight laugh, lifting the glass and taking a sip. Noticing Quatre, Catherine glided over to the new customer to take his order. She returned to Hilde a few moments later.  
  
"That guy over there wants you to join him for a drink," she said, jerking her thumb in Quatre's direction.  
  
"The guy?" Hilde asked, leaning forward. She saw a dim profile and shook her head. "Thank him, but tell him no."  
  
Catherine nodded and wandered away to deliver the message. Hilde sighed and gulped the vodka, her mind swimming in turmoil.  
  
"Hello," a voice by her side said.  
  
Hilde jumped like a cat and jerked her head in the direction of the voice. Seeing that it was Quatre, she relaxed a tiny bit. "What do you think you're doing?" she asked.  
  
Quatre smiled. "Joining you. I'd like to buy you a drink."  
  
Hilde drained her vodka and set down the glass. "I don't drink."  
  
About to tell him to get lost, Hilde looked into his eyes for the first time. But she was unexpectedly overcome by feelings of warmth...and safety...  
  
"What's your name?" Quatre asked, his voice caressing her. Mesmerized by his gaze, Hilde could barely hear herself answer.  
  
"Hilde."  
  
The ensuing silence between them was absolutely electric, until Catherine rang the register and broke the spell.  
  
//I've got to get away from this guy,// Hilde thought, shouldering her bag and rising towards the door. Quatre didn't move.  
  
"Do you get over to Madison Square Garden much?" he called after her.  
  
Hilde froze in her tracks, heart pounding, and turned to look at him.  
  
"What did you say?" she gasped.  
  
"Madison Square Garden. Get over there much?"  
  
His eyes that were so comforting just ten seconds ago were now cold, drilling through her brain.  
  
"Why?" she asked numbly.  
  
Quatre shrugged. "They've got basketball. The circus. Ice hockey." He paused a minute to let the last one sink in. "What's your last name, Hilde?"  
  
Hilde swallowed hard, then regained a bit of bravery. "How come you're asking me about Madison Square Garden?" she demanded. "Did you follow me in here or something?"  
  
The man's answer was a mere smile.  
  
Hilde's blood turned to ice.  
  
"Who the hell are you?" she said in the strongest voice she could manage at the moment, which was barely above a weak hiss.  
  
Quatre rose from the table. "Let me walk you home, Hilde. Pretty girl, alone on the streets at night. No telling what could happen."  
  
Hilde shook her head violently. "Forget it. I can take care of myself."  
  
Quatre shrugged, sitting down as Hilde walked out of the bar. As she reached the sidewalk, she looked back at him in the gloom.  
  
He raised his glass to her and smiled.  
  
Outside the bar, Hilde waited in the shadows, watching Quatre leave. He stood for a moment, glancing up and down 55th Street. Pulling up his collar, he moved off into the night and turned down a dark alley.  
  
And Hilde, of course, made the fateful decision to follow him.  
  
Quatre walked briskly along the East River. A cold wind was blowing as he looked around the deserted area. It was 4:00 in the morning by now.  
  
Steam rose from the vents, twisting and turning like tormented souls in the night air. The cars lined against the curb and yowling of stray cats gave the whole scene a very ethereal, spooky effect.  
  
Every few yards, Quatre would hear footsteps, and stopped to listen closer. But when his own steps halted, so did the ones following him.  
  
At the corner of 46th, his eyes raked the street. Nothing.   
  
Without any warning, he sprinted off, disappearing into a shadowy construction site. Running footsteps followed him.  
  
He nervously grasped the Samurai hilt inside his coat as a figure hurtled around the corner. Quatre sprang forward with a terrible cry and grabbed a handful of hair.  
  
Hilde shouted in panic, trying to get free. "Get your hands off me!" she yelled.  
  
The adrenaline rush subsiding, Quatre shook her, pulling her into the dark against a brick wall. She let out a long, high-pitched scream.  
  
A light went on in a nearby apartment. "Be quiet," Quatre hissed. "I--"  
  
His voice broke off as he listened to the night, eyes flashing as he sensed another presence. He instinctively ducked, yanking the woman with him to the dirt.  
  
The next second, a gleaming sword shattered brick inches above their heads. Quatre rolled away from her, struggling to avoid a slashing blade. A dumbstruck Hilde stared up at a howling giant with a scar across his neck, wielding a huge sword.  
  
The Khushrenada.  
  
She gasped as Quatre grabbed a steel pipe, blocking the Khushrenada's murderous blows. The hulking giant was so fast that he couldn't even grab his sword.   
  
In desparation, he side-stepped the attack and charged, tackling him to the grouns. Locked together, they toppled down an embankment into a shallow pit. Untangling himself from the mass of legs and arms, and sword in hand, the Khushrenada attacked again.  
  
Quatre defended himself with the pipe as the Khushrenada swung at him again and again. "Good to see you again, MacLeod," he gurgled. "Four hundred years is a long time."  
  
"You slimy bastard!" Quatre hissed, blocking another one of his opponent's blows and listening to the distant sound of sirens.  
  
At the top of the embankment, Hilde peered through the muck, straining to see what was going on. Suddenly she lost her footing, crying out as she cannoned into Quatre's back.  
  
"Jesus Christ!" Quatre roared as he felt the impact. "Get the hell out of here!"  
  
Bellowing, the giant charged again. Quatre shoved Hilde out of the path of sudden death.  
  
The Khushrenada laughed. "There can be only one, Highlander," he rasped.  
  
The two men battled through the bare skeleton of the building. The Khushrenada's murderous blade missed Quatre by inches, instead slicing through solid iron.  
  
The sky erupted in thrashing rotors and a roaring down-blast. Blinding clouds of dirt and debris gusted up from beneath the police chopper hovering above.  
  
Searchlight beams probed swirling dust as an amplified voice rumbled down from the sky. "You! On the ground! Stay where you are!" it ordered.  
  
Hilde choked, blinded by the dirt clouds. Quatre grabbed her from nowhere, his arms like steel.  
  
"Some other time, Highlander!" the Khushrenada shouted out of the dark. "There can be only one!"  
  
Quatre hauled Hilde up the embankment, away from the light as he melted into the dark. The sirens came even closer.  
  
As Quatre was dragging her across 1st Avenue, Hilde's lungs felt like they were about to burst. "Stop," she panted. "For Christ's sake, stop."  
  
The two of them halted under a streetlight.  
  
"What in the name of God was that?" she gasped. "He called you Highlander. What did he mean, 'There can be only one?' Only one what?"  
  
Quatre's face seemed to be carved out of stone. "Shut up!" he ordered, pulling her closer. His eyes were like bullet-holes.  
  
"Listen lady," he hissed. "You almost got yourself killed."  
  
Hilde refused to back down. "I want--"  
  
Her words were interrupted as he shook her in an attempt to scare her away.  
  
"Don't you ever follow me again," he said in an intense voice. "Forget about what you saw tonight. You only have one life. If you value it--"  
  
His voice rose in anger. "Go home!"  
  
Quatre threw Hilde to the ground and strode off.  
  
Hilde got to her feet and jumped as a garbage can crashed in a nearby alley. //I should have had a full glass of vodka tonight,// she thought to herself as she shakily began to walk home. 


	4. The New Guy In Town

Gundam Wing: The Highlander  
CHAPTER 4 - The New Guy In Town  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
Author: Ravena Kaiou  
Email: KakyuuStarLt@aol.com  
Genre: Sci-fi/Action  
Crossovers: The Highlander/Gundam Wing  
Warnings: OOC, language, violence, 4xU.  
Disclaimer: This series is meant to be a novelization of the Highlander Movie using Gundam Wing characters. Some things have been changed a bit, others have not. Highlander belongs to Rysher Entertainment, Gundam Wing belongs to Sunrise Animation. Don't sue me! *sobs*  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
In the lobby of the Ansonia Hotel on 73rd and Broadway, a group of derelicts littering the once-elegant room turned their attention on an ancient television set, ignoring the giant man who was signing into his room.  
  
"Okay, Mr. Treize Khushrenada," the chain-smoking greaser behind the desk, Alex, said as he checked the name written in the register. "Room 315. Here's your key. And I'm gonna hit you for twenty bucks in advance."  
  
The Khushrenada pulled out a thick roll of bills, dropping a twenty onto the counter. Kenny's eyes traced over the roll greedily. "Listen, you want anything...broads, blow, whatever, you just dial 0. Alex'll take care of you."  
  
The Khushrenada ignored the man, picking up the black oblong case that he carried with him, and headed towards the elevator.  
  
On a sagging bed in Room 315, the Khushrenada had taken his shirt off and was munching tacos while watching Yosemite Sam on the television, enjoying every moment of the violence. He scratched at one of the many heavy scars on his body, ignoring the cockroaches that crawled around on a hotplate.  
  
Bored, he opened up his black case.  
  
Laid out in velvet slots were the components of a very large sword. Meaty fingers caressed quillions, pommel, hilt, and blade as he got up and moved to the window. Below him, junkies shivered in what was affectionately known as Needle Park.  
  
"At last...The Gathering," he chuckled, the unnerving sound echoing throughout the room.  
  
A sudden knock drew him away from the window. The hulk of a man threw open the splintered, rotting door to reveal a dark-haired hooker in hot pants and boots, her breasts bursting from a tight sweater. She leaned casually on the jamb, cracking her gum.   
  
"I'm Lucrezia," she drawled.  
  
The Khushrenada grinned. "Of course you are."  
  
He dragged the woman into the room and flung her onto the bed. Fearfully, she watched him unbuckle his belt, then slam the door shut.  
  
Trowa sat in the Glamis tavern, slamming down a tankard of ale, Rashid and Relena sitting with him.   
  
It was 1536, the day after the fight between the Fraziers and the MacLeods. Angry villagers packed the small place, the only thing on their minds being Quatre MacLeod's strange delivery from the very jaws of death.  
  
Relena was thrilled by all the excitement.  
  
"Ye saw the wound, Rashid," Trowa said quietly as he downed another sip of ale. "He should have died."  
  
"I say he's got the devil in 'im," Relena blurted out.  
  
The tavern erupted in shouts at the woman's remark, then suddenly turned to complete silence as Quatre entered.  
  
Seeing Rashid, the risen man went to join the table.  
  
"Drinking with us, are ye?" Trowa asked.  
  
Quatre froze as Trowa rose from his seat, noticing how Relena's eyes were sparkling in anticipation and how Rashid avoided his very gaze.  
  
"What's the matter, Trowa?" Quatre responded.  
  
"Ye," Trowa hissed, advancing on his cousin. "Talking and breathing--and this morning, all but a corpse." He raised his voice so that the rest of the crowd could hear. "How did ye manage that, Quatre MacLeod?"  
  
"Would ye rather I was dead?" Quatre answered cooly.  
  
"It's not natural!" Relena cried to the crowd. "He's in league with Lucifer himself!"  
  
"Don't say that, Kate!" Quatre shouted over the ensuing uproar.  
  
"Fine, I'll say it. Ye've got the devil in ye," Trowa shouted back.  
  
"We've been kinsmen fifteen years, cousin!"  
  
"Quatre MacLeod was my kinsman," Trowa said in a quieter voice. "I don't know who ye are."  
  
Relena's eyes danced in the electric tension surrounding the confrontation.  
  
"Ye'd best leave, Quatre," Rashid warned.  
  
"No! I'm not going anywhere!" Quatre proclaimed bravely.  
  
Trowa swung suddenly at Quatre's head, knocking him down and kicking him in the ribs. A plowman destroyed a chair on Quatre's back.  
  
"For God's sake, stop!" Rashid screamed over the din. "Stop!"  
  
But the crowd didn't stop. A villager belted the now-struggling Quatre with a jug, watching in satisfaction as he disappeared under a shouting heap of clansmen.  
  
A bit later, Trowa, Rashid, Father Dermail, and Relena found themselves standing in a circle of yelling villagers, staring at Quatre with an ox-yoke strapped to his back. Quatre's arms were bound to it with ropes, his face battered and bruised, knees buried in the dirt. Beyond the scene, Glamis Castle towered over Loch Shiel.  
  
By now, the excitement had not only unhinged Relena's simple mind, but the minds of nearly everyone else in the village.  
  
"He's yer cousin, man!" Rashid yelled at Trowa.  
  
"Burn him," Father Dermail stated simply. "'Tis the only way."  
  
The villagers chanted in agreement. "Burn him! Burn him," young and old shouted.  
  
"Quiet!" Rashid thundered. The noise of the crowd subsided.  
  
"There'll nae be a burning here today. We'll banish him instead," he said to the group.  
  
"Burn him! Burn him!" Relena chanted, breaking the silence.  
  
"Be quiet, you baggage!" Rashid roared in disgust by her religious frenzy.  
  
The villagers shouted their objections as Rashid nodded to Trowa. The two men helped Quatre to his feet, supporting them as he staggered beneath the weight of the yoke.  
  
"Can ye walk?" Rashid asked worriedly.  
  
"I'll bloody well walk out of here," Quatre spat.  
  
"Move, my friend," Rashid advised, "before they change their minds."  
  
"I'll nae forget ye, Rashid!" Quatre called as villagers spit and cursed at him to drive the poor man out of their town.  
  
"Devil! Devil! Devil!" Relena sang as she danced around him. Her song was contagious, as the rest of the villagers soon began to chant along with her.  
  
Stumbling along the loch, Quatre headed for the mountains.  
  
But in the twentieth century, Quatre was actually walking west on Christopher. The streetlights cast dim pools of light on anyone who would happen to pass by, making their faces look like those of the palest vampires. Dogs barked in the distance.  
  
After a few minutes, Quatre smiled as he came to his home at 1182 Hudson Street. Surrounded by Irish bars, art galleries, and rubble-filled lots, it was the very echo of the Soho district.  
  
He headed for the run-down shop next to the dilapidated ten-story glass-and-iron warehouse. On the shop door was "Q. Winner--Antiques" in a brilliant gold lettering that starkly contrasted with the overall dinginess of the rest of the neighborhood.  
  
Quatre rummaged through his pocket for his keys, then upon retrieving them, unlocked the door and went inside.  
  
After the doors of the freight elevator opened, a huge, open New York loft stood before him. The change from the drab outside to the sumptuous inside was stunning. Exotic fish swam in a huge aquarium that took up almost an entire wall.  
  
But the glory of the living quarters didn't stop there. Quatre descended the stairs to a sunken living room, filled with modern art. A high ceiling rose over comfortable sofas, an Adam fireplace, and a window with a spectacular view of the river.  
  
Moving past stereo speakers and televisions, he dropped his keys onto a table beside an intercom and answering machine. In a silver frame on the mantle was a photo of himself with a young girl, circa 1952.  
  
Next, Quatre moved through a Georgian dining area, complete with a Queen Anne table, silver candlesticks, and intricate tapestries on the wall. He entered an ultra-modern kitchen, stocked with the newest appliances available.  
  
Loosening his tie, he fixed himself a drink and walked out into his elegant, oval-shaped silver room. The walls were coated with fabric, and set off the spectacular arrangement of sofas, tables, and displays of ancient artifacts.  
  
On one wall, thirteen broadswords from various eras were arranged like the spokes of a wheel. Beside them was a bronze shield, claymore, and cloak made of the black and yellow tartan of the Clan MacLeod.  
  
Sipping his drink, he sank into a sofa, eyeing a glass case illuminated by several pin-spots. Inside was an ancient sheepskin doll, a 16th-century catalan feathered hat, and a rusted anvil and tongs.  
  
Quatre stared at the anvil and tongs for a long while, remembering the life when he had made good use of them.  
  
A red-hot piece of iron, gripped with tongs, crashed onto an anvil in a sweltering blacksmith's forge.  
  
It was 1541, five years after Quatre MacLeod's banishment. Wielding a hammer, the exile was streaked with grime and sweat as he pounded out a horseshoe, occasionally plunging it into water and causing hissing steam to radiate from the metal.  
  
By now, the young man had filled out quite nicely with muscle, although none of his wide-eyed youthful exuberance had faded.  
  
Quatre took up the horseshoe and began shoeing a mare outside the small forge, which clung to a crag along a precarious trail. Not far down the trail was the small town of Jedburgh.  
  
Up the hill was a three-story stone house. From the house appeared Une MacLeod, a full-breasted, lusty woman with apple cheeks, dressed in sheepskins, a bonnet and boots. She fed a gander of geese from the basket she carried, pausing to watch her husband work.  
  
"Pie and ale!" Une called, waving another small basket. "D'ye want it?"  
  
Quatre dropped his hammer and ran over to the woman, grabbing her buttocks and crushing her up against his strong body, a sly grin coming over his face.  
  
"All the time," he said with a smirk.  
  
"Ye filthy sod!" Une squealed with a smile on her face. "Ye're all muck and muscle!"  
  
Quatre nodded. "Aye. The way ye like it." He grinned again and kissed her, then stripped his apron and dunked his torso in a rain barrel, shaking himself off like a dog.  
  
Une smiled. He was the loveliest man in the world, according to her.  
  
A bit later, Quatre and Une found themselves making love on the cliff-top in the grass. The remains of a picnic lay nearby.  
  
Thunderheads soared over the mountains, proclaiming to all who noticed them that a storm was coming.  
  
But neither Quatre nor Une paid much attention to them. Quatre kissed his wife passionately once more.  
  
"Ye can do that forever if ye like, m'lord," Une whispered. "Will ye, Quatre?"  
  
"Aye, blossom," Quatre whispered back. "I will."  
  
A string of foreign curses startled them into sitting up.  
  
A man with olive skin, a hawk nose, and twinkling eyes was climbing the trail to the forge, a flintlock pistol in his belt and a crossbow across his back. Strapped to his side was a Samurai sword with a carved handguard, razor-sharp and feather-light.  
  
The poor traveler was terribly overheated in his cloak, pantaloons, feathers and gloves. Yet he still clambered higher, though nearly swooning with fatigue. Dragging himself to the top, he mopped his brow.  
  
"Greetings!" he called. "I am Solo Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez, Chief Metallurgist to King Philip II of Spain."  
  
He clicked his heels. "At your service, might I add."  
  
"Who--?" Une asked with a start.  
  
Solo ignored her. "My God, man!" he gasped, looking back down the trail. "That's a climb!" Breathlessly, he replaced his hat, adjusting various frills and furbellows.  
  
"What d'ye want?" Quatre asked, just a hint of annoyance in his voice.  
  
"I'm looking for a Quatre MacLeod," Solo answered.  
  
Quatre raised an eyebrow. "Maybe ye've found him."  
  
The Spaniard watched him suspiciously, narrowing his eyes. "The same Quatre MacLeod wounded in battle and driven from his village five years ago?"  
  
Something suddenly seized Quatre. He clutched at his chest, unable to breathe.  
  
"Quatre?!" Une gasped in alarm.  
  
"Une...go in the house," Quatre ordered between spurts of breath. When she hesitated, his tone became stronger. "Do as I say, woman!"  
  
Une obediently went back up the hill and inside the house.  
  
Solo flashed wall-to-wall teeth as thunder reverberated down the valley.  
  
"A beautiful young woman," he said, jerking his head just slightly in the direction of the house. "Is she your wife?"  
  
Quatre nodded.  
  
"Sad," Solo commented, shaking his head.  
  
Quatre's temples felt like they were in a vise as Solo opened his tunic, tracing a long, ugly scar that ran from neck to hip with an elegant figure.  
  
"When I was young," he said cooly, "a cart ran over me. I should have died. But the wound healed by itself."  
  
Stars began to explode inside Quatre's head. The forge, the house, and everything in between were spinning wildly.  
  
"Ah, the sensations you feel..." Solo sighed. "It is the Quickening."  
  
Thunder cracked overhead, as if to accentuate his statement. The storm broke in all its fury, a howling wind gusting over the valley and the two men within. Solo's golden eyes began to blaze with an unearthly light.  
  
"Who are ye?!" Quatre shouted.  
  
"We are the same, MacLeod," Solo shouted back. "We are brothers."  
  
Lightning etched their silhouettes against the rolling sky.  
  
In the twentieth century, Hilde was moving through a squad room towards Heero, who was on the phone at his desk. The walls of his office were plastered with mug shots, and occasionally reverberated with the hissing and banging of the steam pipes concealed inside.  
  
Seeing Hilde, he waved her to a seat with the receiver as he shouted into the mouthpiece. "Listen pal," he said angrily, "my advice is, get a bigger one next time. Maybe one that'll bite him!"  
  
He slammed down the phone, eyeing Hilde.  
  
"Here's what I'm dealing with," he said in an agitated tone of voice. "Guy calls up Homicide. Wants to swear out a complaint. His Vietnamese neighbour ate his dog."  
  
There was a moment of silence as he allowed himself to calm down.  
  
"So? How are things in Forensics?"  
  
"Dull," Hilde sighed. "Come on. Let's have lunch."  
  
"Who pays?" Heero asked suspiciously.  
  
"Me."  
  
Heero liked that. He put on his coat, and the two of them headed for the door. But Hilde suddenly stopped.  
  
"Heero, I left my purse," she said. "Go on, I'll catch you by the elevator."  
  
Heero shrugged and left.  
  
Seizing her chance, Hilde returned to the desk and opened a drawer, shuffling through stack after stack of papers until she found what she was looking for.  
  
A bound blue folder containing photos of Fasil's body, the sword, a copy of an interrogation report, and a mug shot stared up at her.  
  
Hilde's heart stopped as she saw the man in the mug shot.  
  
It was the man from the bar who had fought the scarred giant.  
  
"I'll be damned," she breathed. "So you're Quatre Raberba-Winner."  
  
She stared at the picture for a long while. Even in the harsh photo flash, his face was compelling, his eyes haunting, evoking a timeless mystery.  
  
She jumped as Heero's phone rang.  
  
Glancing around, she jotted Quatre's address down, shut the drawer, grabbed her purse and headed out. 


	5. What Solo Told Him

Gundam Wing: The Highlander  
CHAPTER 5 - What Solo Told Him  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
Author: Ravena Kaiou  
Email: KakyuuStarLt@aol.com  
Genre: Sci-fi/Action  
Crossovers: The Highlander/Gundam Wing  
Warnings: OOC, language, violence, hints of 4xU and 4xH.  
Disclaimer: This series is meant to be a novelization of the Highlander Movie using Gundam Wing characters. Some things have been changed a bit, others have not. Highlander belongs to Rysher Entertainment, Gundam Wing belongs to Sunrise Animation. Don't sue me! *sobs*  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
Quatre sat in the sunken lounge, sharpening his Samurai sword with a jeweler's file in front of a crackling fire.  
  
Sighing as he finished and placed the sword on a nearby coffee table, he couldn't help but smile as he re-read the title of the newest addition to his vast collection of books.  
  
"A Metallurgical History of Ancient Sword-Making," he mumbled. "By Hilde Schbeiker."  
  
He studied the smiling photograph of the author, noticing for the first time how much she reminded him of Une. Such a beautiful woman, yet strong-willed with a good head on her shoulders, too.  
  
He paused to read the biography, taking particular interest in the fact that Hilde did forensics work for the City of New York.  
  
The brightly coloured tropical fish in the aquarium surrounding him glided through their watery environment with impeccable grace. He watched them absently, his mind drifting back through time to 1541.  
  
Solo and Quatre were in a boat, heading for an island in the middle of the loch. Resplendent in a feathered hat, jewelled tunic, cape and boots, the Spaniard manned the oars easily.  
  
But Quatre was alarmed, his knuckles white as he gripped his claymore tightly and faced Solo.   
  
"I don't like boats," he managed to choke out. "I don't like water. I'm a man, not a fish!"  
  
Solo narrowed his eyes at the other man. "You complain endlessly. I wonder if I'm wasting my time with you, brother."  
  
"Stop calling me yer brother. Ye look like a woman, ye stupid haggis."  
  
Solo was puzzled. "Haggis?" he repeated slowly. "What is haggis?"  
  
Quatre grinned triumphantly. "A sheep's stomach stuffed with meat an' barley."  
  
The Spaniard was visibly intrigued. "What do you do with it?"  
  
"Why, ye eat it," Quatre said slyly.  
  
Solo could feel his stomach turn. "How revolting," he said in a weak voice.  
  
Resting the oars, he took a pinch of snuff, inhaling deeply. Perhaps too deeply, as his loud sneeze caused the boat to rock violently.  
  
"Be still, for God's sake!" Quatre hissed, shaking in fear. "Ye'll tip us over!"  
  
"What's your point?" Solo asked boredly.  
  
"I can't swim, you Spanish peacock!"  
  
The two men's angry voices carried themselves across the loch.  
  
"I'm not Spanish! I am Egyptian!" Solo demanded.  
  
Quatre eyed him suspiciously. "Ye said ye were from Spain, ye liar."  
  
"Well, you smell like a dung-heap! You have the manners of a goat, and no knowledge of your potential," Solo said gleefully as he purposely began to rock the boat.  
  
Quatre was terrified. See-sawing wildly, he grabbed for an oar.  
  
Seizing his chance, Solo threw him overboard.  
  
There was a huge splash, and a fit of yelling as Quatre disappeared below the water's murky surface, then bobbed back up every so often, flailing his arms.  
  
"Help me!" he gasped. "I'm drowning!"  
  
Solo smirked and rowed for the island. "You can't drown, you fool," he called over his shoulder. "You're immortal."  
  
Quatre sank in a mass of bubbles as his 'brother' continued to row.  
  
Hilde was now parked outside 1182 Hudson Street back in the twentieth century. Getting out of her Pontiac, she checked the address that had been hastily scrawled in her notebook. Across the street was a sign that read "Q. Winner -- Antiques."  
  
She smiled triumphantly as she headed for the door. "Found you, you adorable bastard," she mumbled as she walked in.  
  
Quatre was staring into the fire in the sunken lounge. A flashing red light suddenly distracted him, causing him to flip a switch on the intercom. Two voices rang through the room.  
  
"I'm sorry, Miss Schbeiker," his secretary was saying. "Mr. Winner is unavailable."  
  
Hilde's voice was bordering on annoyed. "But I need to talk to him now!"  
  
"I'm sorry miss. That's impossible."  
  
"Can I call him at home?"  
  
That was enough for Quatre. Taking one last glance at her book that was still lying on the coffee table, he got up and pushed a button, opening the door that lead to the outer office.  
  
In the outer office, Dorothy Catalonia, a sour-faced woman in a pantsuit and glasses, was sitting behind a desk talking to Hilde. Antiques of every shape and size surrounded the two women.  
  
"I'm afraid not," Dorothy said in an equally annoyed voice.  
  
Quatre appeared in the doorway. "Hello," he said.  
  
"Oh, Mr. Winner," Dorothy said politely, ignoring the smart-assed smirk that Hilde flashed at her. "This is Hilde Schbeiker."  
  
"Ah, Schbeiker. So that's your last name," Quatre chuckled. "We've already met, Dorothy."  
  
He sat down in a chair near Hilde's. "So? What can I do for you?"  
  
Hilde took a deep breath. "I'd like some advice, if you please."  
  
Quatre smirked. "Are you the kind of woman who takes advice?"  
  
"That depends."  
  
Hilde met his gaze, enjoying the mild sparring going on between the two of them. Once again, she found himself falling into his luscious blue irises, thinking how wonderful it would be if he were to kiss her...  
  
"Advice about what?" Quatre asked, his words cutting into her daydream.  
  
Hilde regained her composure. "What can you tell me about a seven-foot lunatic hacking away at people with a broadsword at one o'clock in the morning in New York City, 1985?"  
  
Quatre grinned. "Not much."  
  
Hilde eyed him suspiciously. "Then how about a Japanese sword made in 600 B.C.?" Noticing the man's reaction, she quickly added, "The metal in the blade folded 200 times."  
  
Quatre shook his head, but the woman kept coming.  
  
"Then what about--"  
  
"Listen, I don't deal in exotic weapons," he said, taking her arm and gently guiding her to a display case. For just a moment, their souls touched, too.  
  
"Can I show you something in 18th Century silver?" he suggested, trying to hide his enjoyment of being so close to her.  
  
"That's not why I came here," Hilde stuttered, "and you know it."  
  
Their eyes met again, the closeness unsettling both of them.  
  
"Do you cook?" Quatre blurted out.  
  
Hilde was taken aback. "Why?"  
  
Quatre looked down for a moment, then reestablished eye contact. "I thought we might have dinner together."  
  
"Oh, did you?" Hilde asked provocatively.  
  
"Yes." Quatre found her aggressiveness so sexy that he couldn't help but long for the gentle touch of her lips. The two of them leaned in for a brief kiss, but before anything could happen, Duo Maxwell burst into the shop.  
  
Quatre and Hilde quickly separated, watching as Duo scrutinized a tapestry, featuring delicately embroidered mermaids frolicking with horrible sea monsters.  
  
"The Rape of Neptune's Daughter By The Fish Creatures," a voice from Duo's elbow explained.  
  
The detective paused his contemplation of the garish creation and blinked.  
  
"Do you like fish?" Quatre continued.  
  
"To eat, you mean?" Duo responded in a confused tone, but his words fell on deaf ears. Quatre was already several hundred years away.  
  
Solo reclined on the island by a crackling fire, facing the loch. The boat was tied up on the beach, the bright sunshine reflecting off the water, adding to the stunning effect of the scenery. He enjoyed the solitude as he absently patted the sword lying at his side on the ground.  
  
Fifty yards behind him, the lake surface swirled silently as Quatre's glowering head appeared above the water. He rose quietly out of the lake and, spotting Ramirez, waded cautiously to the shore.  
  
Covered in duck-weed and slime, he drew out his claymore, creeping silently behind the Spaniard. He raised the sword in both hands high over Solo's head, intending to cut the bastard in half.  
  
"What took you so long?" Solo asked boredly.  
  
Quatre brought his sword down quickly, but Solo grabbed his Samurai, parried the blow, and was up and facing him in one lightning motion.  
  
Quatre watched in awe as his claymore flew from his hands and landed on the beach fifty feet away.  
  
"As I asked before, what took you so long?"  
  
MacLeod shook his head in disbelief. "This can't be," he gasped. "'Tis the Devil's work."  
  
Solo broke out into laughter. "You numbskull!" he cackled. "You clod! You're no better than the villagers who threw you out!"  
  
The livid highlander spluttered water and stared out at the loch, trying to make sense of what was happening to him and the sudden desire to kill the cackling Spaniard.  
  
"You cannot die, MacLeod," Solo said as he wiped tears from his eyes. "Accept it.  
  
Two fish wriggled themselves free from Quatre's tunic, flopping wildly on the sand and causing Solo to break into another fit of uncontrollable laughter.  
  
"Ye damn hyena!" Quatre hissed through his teeth. "I hate ye!"  
  
Solo nodded. "Excellent! That's a good place to start!"  
  
MacLeod found himself sparring with Solo beneath a waterfall shortly afterwards, steel clanging against steel. Rainbows of spray spanned the deep gorge, misting Quatre's body as he took strong swings at the Spaniard that were at the same time quite awkward. Solo laughed as his Samurai swung in a brilliant display of swordsmanship.  
  
"No no, my friend," Solo called as they fought. "Protect your stupid, ugly head."  
  
Angered, Quatre thrusted, only to be blocked by his opponent.  
  
"Concentrate!" he continued. "You can survive anything but steel against your throat. If your head leaves your neck, it's over for you, brother."  
  
"Stop calling me that!" Quatre bellowed as his strike was easily deflected.  
  
"Come on, move your feet," Solo encouraged, advancing on the other man. "We must fight until only one remains. There can be only one."  
  
When Quatre did not do as he was instructed, Solo's patience began to wear a little thin. "Move your feet, I said!"  
  
He ducked a wild swing. "You are safe only on holy ground. None of us will violate that law."  
  
An exhausted MacLeod staggered, then collapsed, gulping for air in the soft grass. Solo was relentless, poking the highlander in the butt with the very tip of his sword as he took a final swing that missed him all together, smashing brush and demolishing trees.  
  
"Ye overgrown haggis! I'll split ye in half!" Quatre gasped.  
  
Solo was not amused. "Get up," he ordered.  
  
"Go to Hell. I've had enough."  
  
The Spaniard's expression changed as he sat beside the young charge, watching the thundering waterfall thoughtfully.  
  
"You must fight," he explained. "You must learn to keep your head. On you may depend the fate of mortal men."  
  
"I don't care," Quatre answered defensively. "I don't want it."  
  
"Now you're just being selfish," Solo scolded. "None of us chose this. Believe me."  
  
Quatre blinked. "If you didn't choose it, then for God's sake, how did it happen?"  
  
Solo chuckled. "How does the sun know when to come up?" He pointed at a group of squirrels, chattering aimlessly underneath a gigantic oak. "Those squirrels all look alike, do they not?" he asked.  
  
Quatre frowned and nodded.  
  
"Indeed, they do. But sometimes one is born different. With blue eyes. Or maybe fur as white as the snow. Others of its kind try to destroy it or drive it away."  
  
He flicked a bee off his pantaloons, then moved into the oak's shade, shooing the squirrels away. Quatre followed him, still full of questions.  
  
Before he could ask any of them, Solo glanced at him and spoke again. "You must learn to conceal your special gift," he warned. "To harness your power...until the time of the Gathering."  
  
"What Gathering?" Quatre asked, bewildered.  
  
"Questions, questions," Solo chuckled again. "Too much talk."  
  
Slicing the air with his Samurai, he waved Quatre to his feet.  
  
"I'm not moving," the man said sourly.  
  
Solo shrugged. "Then I'll cut you where you sit."  
  
Quatre wearily rose to his feet as the Spaniard advanced, pounding him backwards.  
  
"It is said that when only a few of us are left, eons from now, we will feel an irresistable pull to a faraway land," he said as the two men fought.  
  
"For what purpose?" Quatre called over the clanging of their swords.  
  
"To fight. To fight for the unknowable Prize." 


	6. A Lesson Learned

Gundam Wing: The Highlander  
CHAPTER 6 - A Lesson Learned  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
Author: Ravena Kaiou  
Email: KakyuuStarLt@aol.com  
Genre: Sci-fi/Action  
Crossovers: The Highlander/Gundam Wing  
Warnings: OOC, language, violence, 4xU.  
Disclaimer: This series is meant to be a novelization of the Highlander Movie using Gundam Wing characters. Some things have been changed a bit, others have not. Highlander belongs to Rysher Entertainment, Gundam Wing belongs to Sunrise Animation. Don't sue me! *sobs*  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
Heero Yuy sat with his feet up on his desk, a cigar dangling out of the corner of his mouth. In front of him was the latest copy of the New York Times.  
  
"Head-Hunter Stalks New York," screamed the bold black type that made up the headline.  
  
The lieutenant slumped in defeat as he read the article, which told of the murder of Meiran Chang, a security guard at one of the countless office buildings in New York City. Her torso had been found in a trash can, but her head was still missing.   
  
Duo sauntered his way into the office and knocked three times on the doorframe. "Good morning, sunshine," he joked as he took a seat across from Heero.  
  
Heero rolled his eyes. "Very funny. You're a real piece of work, you know that?"  
  
The detective grinned. "So I've been told."  
  
"Now, what brings you to darken my doorstep?" Heero asked, emptying a bit of cigar ash into the wastebin nearby.  
  
"Perhaps you'd be interested to know where Hilde Schbeiker of Forensics spent her afternoon yesterday," Duo sighed as he leaned back in the chair and let out a might yawn and stretch.  
  
Heero raised an eyebrow. "Enlighten me, please."  
  
"She was talking to Winner in his shop on Hudson," Duo answered in a teasing voice. "and he had one hell of a sales pitch for her."  
  
Heero half-smiled. "That ballsy broad. I never know what's going on with her." He took a final thoughtful drag of the cigar, then extinguished it in a nearby ashtray. "What did she and Winner talk about? Did he say anything?"  
  
Duo's face took on an odd expression as he remembered the exact conversation. "Yeah...as a matter of fact, he did. He asked me if I liked fish."  
  
Heero blinked, wondering if he had heard his friend right the first time. "Fish --?"  
  
By now, Quatre was making great bounds of improvement and gaining control against Solo. His blows were stronger, his coordination getting stronger with every practise-fight.  
  
Solo was visibly pleased with his student.  
  
The two men took a break and made their way to the Jedburgh Market in the bright sunshine. Flags and banners cracked in the wind that blew in from the sea, surrounding a crowd that milled past farmers selling plump cows and wooly sheep, open fires, musicians, and hawkers.  
  
Quatre and Solo watched Une in amusement as she viciously bartered for a flapping chicken in the midst of a group of shouting women. The Spaniard turned away for a moment to buy an apple, holding his hat with one hand to prevent it from blowing away in the skirling wind. He thoughtfully gazed up at Quatre's forge, now just a mere dot on the craggy mountainside, and bit into the shiny red fruit.  
  
"You will have no family," he said with a touch of sadness in his voice, "for we cannot have children."  
  
Quatre wistfully watched a group of little girls dance around a maypole to the lively music of a nearby band, then turned his eyes onto his wife as she triumphantly received the squawking bird she had desired.  
  
"That'll nae please Une," he sighed. "I'll tell ye that for nothing."  
  
Solo shrugged.  
  
Une held up the sackcloth bag, the sides of which occasionally bulged out with the frantic struggling of the animal within. "Here's dinner," she called to Quatre. "Be off with ye, now. I fancy a new dress."  
  
Quatre waved back to her retreating figure, then looked over at Solo, who was watching a nearby juggler with great intent.  
  
As the highlander, too, began to watch the man's tricks, the garishly dressed clown fumbled with one of the balls, ending his show. The crowd sighed in disappointment for a moment, then clapped and whistled as he took a bow.  
  
"You must leave her, my brother," Solo said, putting his hand on Quatre's shoulder.  
  
Quatre scowled and walked off, Solo close at his heels.  
  
They arrived at a grassy arena where huge, muscular men in kilts were tossing cabers forty feet long, occasionally pausing to indulge in the wild cheers of the crowd.  
  
"I was born 2,437 years ago," Solo said, unfazed by Quatre's reaction. "In that time, I have had three wives."  
  
Quatre stared at the young-looking man in surprise, trying to figure his age.  
  
A whore sashayed her way past the two men, her skirts billowing in the wind as she ogled Solo. Grinning, the Spaniard took off his hat and bowed to her.   
  
"The last was Shakiko, a Japanese princess," he said after the harlot had moved on to the next male spectator. He patted the handle of the Samurai sword at his waist. "Her father, Kamakura, was a metallurgic genius. He made this for me in 593 B.C. And it is the only one of its kind."  
  
His face grew sad, his gaze far-off as he reminisced. "Much like his daughter."  
  
Drawing the Samurai, he tossed it to Quatre. The highlander caught it, testing its weight and taking a few small practice swings with the shining blade.  
  
"When Shakiko died, I was shattered," Solo sighed. "I would save you that pain. Please...let Une go."  
  
Quatre shook his head stubbornly. "She's my wife, man. I love her," he hissed. He watched her fondly as she gaily pushed through the crowd, ablaze with coloured silks.  
  
"Then you will cause yourself great anguish," Solo said quietly. "I buried Shakiko with my own hands."  
  
His eyes began to mist over. "I had to go on, never again to hear the sound of her voice, her beautiful laughter," he said, his voice beginning to break apart. "She left behind such a terrible silence."  
  
MacLeod looked at his teacher sympathetically, and was about to say a kind word or two to ease his pain, but Une flew into his arms at that moment, kissing him and waving the cloth in his face.  
  
"D'ye like it?" she asked hopefully. "Tell yer wife true."  
  
Quatre still eyed Solo. "Aye, blossom. 'Tis fine."  
  
Delighted, she danced her way around him, entwining him in the coloured cloth.  
  
The wind-whipped waves on the stormy North Sea crashed against the Scottish coast, the cold sun reflecting off of its shining surface in brilliant displays of white flashes. Seagulls flew on the wind past high, rocky mountains that reached up into the fluffy clouds.  
  
Suddenly, a giant stag with shining antlers appeared on the shore, rearing up in the gorse. Holding its head high and still, it watched as Quatre and Solo made their way down the rocky beach.  
  
Quatre shivered in the cold, his teeth chattering. But Solo had no mercy for him. "Now for the last of our training," he said.  
  
The Spaniard pointed to the stag, shouting above the surf.  
  
"Trust in yourself," he said. "Let your mind feel the stag. His blood coursing through his veins. His heart beating."  
  
In Quatre's brain, the sound of his own pounding heart was slowly joined by another, quicker-paced beat.  
  
"I feel him," Quatre said, enthralled with the new sensation.  
  
Solo smiled. "Excellent. It is the Quickening. We are at one with all living things."  
  
The stag's nostrils flared as it sensed some paranoid danger in the air. Quickly, gracefully, the animal bolted into the distance.  
  
At that moment, Quatre knew that his perception would be forever changed. The highlands, the sea, the trees...now they seemed like old friends that he'd never see the same way again.  
  
"When we first met, you felt ill, remember?" Solo asked, a slight smile playing across his face.  
  
Quatre shivered in a freezing blast of wind and nodded.  
  
"Did you ever feel that way before?" the man continued.  
  
The highlander's eyes flashed as his mind raced back to that fateful day five years ago. "Aye. When the MacLeods fought the Fraziers, and a black knight ran me through. Only it was different...it was more painful."  
  
Solo paused to watch a group of herons swoop low over the waves, picking unsuspecting fish out of the crystalline water with their long beaks.  
  
"That black knight was the Kurgan," he said in a low tone. "It is because of him that I sought you out."  
  
Quatre blinked in surprise.  
  
"There is great power in the Quickening," Solo explained. "But nature has not given us equal shares. Some, like you and the Kurgan, have more."  
  
By now, Quatre was sure that his ears had frozen off. He couldn't have heard Solo right...could he have?  
  
"When one of us takes another's head," the Spaniard continued, "the victor becomes stronger."  
  
The two men clambered through rocks, away from the angry sea.  
  
Shortly after, Quatre and Solo found themselves sitting on the bank of a deep-water pond, surrounded by ferns, its silence and extreme age protected by the dome of fir trees that towered over it.  
  
The Spaniard shed his boots and yanked up his pantaloons, stepping gingerly into the pool. His body clenched up in reaction to the cold, yet he did not draw his feet from the icy water.  
  
"Who is the Kurgan?" Quatre asked. "Where does he come from?"  
  
Solo nodded. "The Kurgans were an ancient people from the steppes of Russia. For amusement, they tossed children into pits with hungry dogs to fight for meat."  
  
A bluejay arrived at its home in the trees above, laden down with food for its own hungry offspring.  
  
"I have fought the Kurgan three times," Solo continued. "In Babylon, Greece, and China."  
  
He skipped out of the water, drying his feet off as he did. "The last time, I was lucky to get away with my head." The Spaniard paused to replace his boots. "The Kurgan is the strongest of all immortals. He is the perfect warrior."  
  
Quatre shuddered, remembering the fearsome creature that he had battled at Loch Shiel.  
  
"He cares about nothing or no one," Solo said intensely. "He is completely evil. If he wins the Prize, mortal men will suffer an eternity of darkness and slavery beneath his boot."  
  
"How do ye fight such a savage?" Quatre asked.  
  
Solo set his hand gently on his shoulder. "With heart, faith, and steel, my brother."  
  
Quatre and Solo made their way down a woodland path just as the sunset changed from green to gold. Solo drew his Samurai and grinned. "Now. Let us see what kind of swordsman you have become. On guard!"  
  
Quatre was already moving, his claymore spinning as he fought. He feinted as Solo ducked to avoid the deadly blade. Off-balance, the Spaniard retreated, warding off deadly thrusts as he did.  
  
"In the end, there can be only one," Solo said, taking a swing at his opponent. "It is the Prize for which we all struggle. The Kurgan must never win it. Alone, I cannot stop him." He retreated again. "You may have a chance."  
  
The sure-footed Quatre tracked him through fallen timber.  
  
"If it came down to just us two," Quatre asked, "would you take my head?"  
  
Solo didn't answer.  
  
Quatre leapt forward, his sword now a whistling razor. Solo parried, but it was no good; the student had now become the master.  
  
Solo lost his balance and toppled into a gully. Quatre was on him in a flash, blade against his throat.  
  
Their breaths rasping, they held each other's gaze in the green twilight. What seemed like an eternity passed until Quatre leaned back and threw his sword down onto the ground.  
  
He reached out to the fallen man. "Give me yer hand...brother," he said.  
  
Solo smiled as Quatre helped him to his feet. His work here was done. 


	7. The Party

Gundam Wing: The Highlander  
CHAPTER 7 - The Party  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
Author: Ravena Kaiou  
Email: KakyuuStarLt@aol.com  
Genre: Sci-fi/Action  
Crossovers: The Highlander/Gundam Wing  
Warnings: OOC, language, violence.  
Disclaimer: This series is meant to be a novelization of the Highlander Movie using Gundam Wing characters. Some things have been changed a bit, others have not. Highlander belongs to Rysher Entertainment, Gundam Wing belongs to Sunrise Animation. Don't sue me! *sobs*  
(Note: Ahmad is a character from the Shinkoidousenki Gundam Wing: Episode Zero manga, featured in Act 4.)  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
Quatre strode through Central Park, pausing to watch the skaters gliding across the ice for just a moment. The corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been an attempt at a smile as he noticed a group of kids fighting with wooden swords nearby in Sheep Meadow.  
  
Behind him, the faithful Duo Maxwell was trying to look inconspicuous while still dogging his tracks.  
  
A sudden gust of wind whipped Quatre's blonde hair out of his face.   
  
Ahead, just past the trees, he could see an elegant, dark-skinned Arabian man in blue-gold robes, his head crowned with an ermine-trimmed cap. This was Ahmad Kastagir, a very old friend of Quatre's.  
  
Ahmad was standing on a stone bridge over the lake, feeding bread to the ducks that gathered anxiously below. Footsteps clacked across stone, coming to a stop right next to him.  
  
He glanced up, locking eyes with Quatre, both men tense and ready for anything.  
  
"MacLeod!" Ahmad laughed, grinning wall-to-wall teeth and grabbing Quatre in a huge bear-hug. "It is good to see you! It seems like a hundred years!"  
  
Quatre chuckled. "It has been a hundred years, my friend."  
  
Ahmad's eyes took on a mischevious glimmer as he withdrew a small flask from within the folds of his robes. "A little something to put hair on your chest?" he asked slyly.  
  
"What is it?" Quatre asked, his voice dripping with suspicion.  
  
"Boom-Boom."  
  
Quatre sniffed the open flask and nearly reeled back from the smell. "That's a hell of a drink," he choked.  
  
The Arabian nodded. "You've become so strong, MacLeod. Surely, you're not afraid of a little Boom-Boom," he teased, raising an eyebrow like an old movie villain. "Do you think I'm trying to poison you?"  
  
The two men shared a hearty laugh. Quatre took a small drink and, upon retrieving the flask, Ahmad took a long swig.  
  
"You're crazy, Ahmad," Quatre said, trying not to let the strong drink overtake him. "You always were."  
  
Ahmad offered him the flask again. "Have some more."  
  
Quatre politely took another drink as the other man turned to feed the hungry ducks.  
  
"The Gathering is here," Ahmad said quietly. "Time has almost caught us, my friend."  
  
Quatre grinned, closing the flask and handing it back to him. "Has it really? Then do you think we should go on?"  
  
Ahmad waggled his eyebrows. "I think we should have a party."  
  
They laughed and took off across the park, Duo emerging from some nearby bushes to follow them.  
  
The detective soon found himself in Jolly Roger's Bar, a popular steel-and-neon Village hangout. Sawdust covered the floor.  
  
Stealthily, he made is way to a nearby booth to spy on Ahmad and Quatre from behind a New York Post. He watched them intently as they drank and talked, and occasionally glanced in his direction.  
  
Quatre and Ahmad unexpectedly left their table and walked over to Duo's. "Mind if we join you?" Quatre asked.  
  
Duo folded his paper and tried to gather his wits, realizing with a heavy feeling in his stomach that his cover was blown. But was this the opportunity he was waiting for? After a brief moment of silent deliberation, he decided to play along.  
  
Somehow, the detective managed a weak nod.  
  
Quatre and Ahmad sat down. "Ahmad Kastagir, meet--- I'm sorry, what's your name?" he asked Duo.  
  
"Maxwell," the man grunted. "Duo Maxwell."  
  
"Ah," Quatre said with a grin. "He's a cop. He questioned me after Fasil lost his head. He's trying to pin a murder on me."  
  
He paused and winked at Ahmad. "If I'm guilty, they'll give me the death penalty."  
  
Quatre and Ahmad roared with laughter, Maxwell's eyes narrowing as he made several mental notes.  
  
A gum-cracking waitress in a pirate costume appeared. "Want anything?" she asked Duo in a bored tone of voice.  
  
"I'll have what they're having," Duo said just as boredly.  
  
"Bring more!" Ahmad boomed triumphantly as the waitress left.  
  
And bring more, she did. The waitress brought endless rounds of drinks and, amidst all the raucous laughter, the trio soon became terribly drunk.  
  
His thoughts clouded by all of the alcohol, Maxwell began to have fun as he finally went to work on Ahmad's flask of Boom-Boom.  
  
The three men were completely potted as they slumped at their table, now a forest of empty bottles.  
  
"D'you remember the night Washington lost his teeth at Valley Forge?" Ahmad asked Quatre, slapping his knee and laughing as he recalled the event.  
  
Duo nodded, almost falling over as he did so. "I was in Washington once," he slurred.  
  
Quatre and Ahmad both ignored the detective. "How could I forget? Freezing our asses off, crawling around in the snow looking for a set of wooden dentures..." Quatre giggled.  
  
A puzzled expression came over Duo's face. "Which Washington are we talking about?" he asked Quatre.  
  
Ahmad snickered. "Ever fight a duel, Mastelle?"  
  
"Maxwell."  
  
The Arabian shook his head slowly. "Me neither." He gestured towards Quatre. "But he has."  
  
Duo squinted and tried to focus his vision on only one of the three Quatres that he was seeing at that point.  
  
"It was in 1797," Quatre explained, his words running together. "I was using the name Adrian Montague. I insulted the wife of a pompous Boston lawyer named Barton. Bloom, his second, dragged me to Beacon Common." He laughed. "I was so damn drunk."   
  
Duo blinked as he stared at the blonde. "1797--?" But his gaze was left un-returned. Wherever Quatre was staring, it was very, very far away from the bar.  
  
"Barton chose rapiers at dawn," Quatre remembered. He could still see himself, red-eyed and dishevelled, his gait weaving from side to side as he stumbled onto the Common.  
  
A corpulent, ferret-faced Barton tested his blades underneath a tree, horses grazing nearby. Bloom, a tall, lantern-jawed toad, brushed his master's coast off.  
  
"The heavier blade," Bloom suggested. "Mr. Barton, I implore you."  
  
Barton shook his head fiercely. "You are my second, Bloom. I am fighting this duel, not you."  
  
He watched in amusement as Quatre, or Adrian, as he was now known, tried to kill an innocent bystanding bush.  
  
"See if the imbecile is ready," he chuckled. Bloom nodded and rocketed over the grass, keeping clear of Adrian's unpredictable thrusts.  
  
"Mr. Barton is waiting, sir," Bloom informed the drunk man.  
  
Adrian whipped around, nearly dislocating his neck.  
  
"I'm Bontagu, not Marton," he slurred, his wig sliding over his eyes. "Christ! I've gone blind!"  
  
"On guard, sir," Barton called, advancing. Bloom waited for the kill, watching Adrian stumble about, his vision impaired by the powder-white wig.  
  
"Fair enough," Barton shrugged, pulling his rapier back and running the man through.  
  
Seeing that it was finished, Bloom ran onto the field and kissed his master, escorting him back to his horse.  
  
But Adrian staggered back up, his wound healing and the pain in his head pounding like the repeat of a firing musket.  
  
"Barton!" Adrian called. "Is that you?"  
  
The dumbstruck men wheeled around and stared as Adrian waved at them.  
  
"You missed him, Mr. Barton," Bloom sighed.  
  
"I did not miss him, you idiot!" Barton said sourly. "I ran him through!"  
  
Adrian blinked and looked at the sword in his hand, wondering what it was.  
  
"Regardless, he is still standing, sir," Bloom argued.  
  
Shoving his second aside, Barton lunged, running Adrian through again. Adrian fell to the ground.  
  
Quatre's mind returned to the twentieth century for just a moment. "Barton kept running me through," he laughed. "And I'd fall down."  
  
He remembered the frenzied attempts by Barton, each time receiving kisses from Bloom.  
  
"Bloom would embrace Barton and they'd head for their horses. But I'd stagger up."  
  
Quatre's eyes grew distant again as he had yet another flashback.  
  
Adrian was rocking on his heels, babbling incoherently about something or other. Barton was horrified.   
  
"This must be a nightmare," he gasped as Bloom shoved a pistol into his hand.   
  
"Shoot him!" Bloom screeched. "Shoot him in the head!"  
  
The alcohol wearing off enough for him to finally grasp what was happening, Adrian raised a hand.  
  
"Stop sir," he gasped. "I beseech you."  
  
Barton cocked the gun, Bloom urging him on.  
  
"I apologize, Mr. Barton, for calling your wife a bloated warthog," Adrian said as he unsteadily got to his feet. "I trust that honour has been satisfied, and do bid you good day."  
  
He staggered off into the mist as Bloom tried to wrench the gun from Barton's grip.   
  
"Let me do it," Bloom hissed. "You botched the whole thing!"  
  
Wrestling the gun away from him, Barton wheeled around in circles, looking for someone to kill.  
  
Bloom had a sneaking suspicion that he would be the target. In fear of his own life, Bloom turned and fled as Barton raised the pistol and fired.  
  
Back at Jolly Roger's, Ahmad was howling with laughter and pounding on the table. Still drunk, Duo staggered up, knocking over bottles as he did so.  
  
"I wanna thank--" he slurred, but blinked, unable to finish the sentence. He couldn't remember any of their names. Hiccupping, he weaved off, mumbling things under his breath.  
  
"Wonderful evening," his voice rang out one last time.  
  
Neither Quatre nor Ahmad noticed that he had left. The pirate-waitress loomed over the table, the two men squinting up at her.  
  
"Avast, ye bonny wench!" Ahmad cackled, imagining that he was in a century long-past.   
  
Quatre laughed. "Bring us two barrels of scurvy and a bucket of cleats!"  
  
The waitress was not amused. "Okay, that's it, guys. You're history," she said.  
  
And she was quite right. The party was over. 


	8. Solo's Last Goodbye

Gundam Wing: The Highlander  
CHAPTER 8 - Solo's Last Goodbye  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
Author: Ravena Kaiou  
Email: KakyuuStarLt@aol.com  
Genre: Sci-fi/Action  
Crossovers: The Highlander/Gundam Wing  
Warnings: OOC, language, violence, 4xU.  
Disclaimer: This series is meant to be a novelization of the Highlander Movie using Gundam Wing characters. Some things have been changed a bit, others have not. Highlander belongs to Rysher Entertainment, Gundam Wing belongs to Sunrise Animation. Don't sue me! *sobs*  
(Note: Ahmad is a character from the Shinkoidousenki Gundam Wing: Episode Zero manga, featured in Act 4.)  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
A few hours after their celebration, the newly-sober Ahmad and Quatre both rocked back and forth absently on cheaply-constructed black swings.   
  
From the playground they were resting in, both men could see the skyscrapers of the city rising up above the trees, their glass sides blazing with the fiery colours of the rising sun. A bitter wind tossed a newspaper across one of the slides, swirling leaves around the silent figures.  
  
"There are three of us left," Quatre said suddenly. "You, me, and the Khushrenada."  
  
Ahmad nodded thoughtfully, then in a wave of realization, turned to face his friend. "You're not suggesting that we join forces against him?" he gasped.  
  
Quatre remained silent and watched as a jogger floundered by.  
  
"Solo filled your head with nonsense," Ahmad scorned. "Sooner or later, you and I will have to fight."  
  
He paused and rested his hand on Quatre's shoulder. "Nothing personal. I've always liked you, actually."  
  
He pointed a finger at the blonde man and pulled an imaginary trigger.  
  
"Boom-Boom."  
  
Quatre silently got up and walked away, leaving Ahmad to swing in the crisp wind.  
  
He remembered a day when Solo and Une were having a hearty lunch in the modest MacLeod home. Weak sunlight filtered in through the windows, illuminating the tiny dust angels that floated in the air. A wooden staircase ran from the ground to the third floor.  
  
Solo took a bite of his bread, then suddenly, his body jolted violently. The blood drained from his face as his expression contorted. "Run, Une!" he demanded in a strangled voice.  
  
As if on cue, the front door exploded, sending fragments of wood flying through the room.   
  
In the splintered doorframe appeared a frighteningly large figure with burning eyes, and a gigantic sword in hand. He let out a terrible laugh and surged inside.   
  
Une gasped and stumbled back as Solo dove for his sword resting on top of the table. The figure swung viciously at him, barely missing the Spaniard and easily slicing the table into two halves, the heavy pieces hitting the wooden floor with a mighty thud.  
  
Solo easily countered, swinging his own blade and cleanly slicing through his oponent's neck. A thin red line appeared on his throat where the metal had pierced his flesh and severed his vocal cords.   
  
The man gargled in fury, clutching at his bleeding neck while at the same time trying to ward off the Spaniard's deadly attack, reeling backwards up the stairs.  
  
Solo was not to be deterred as he advanced on his opponent, blade flashing as he swung it through the air. Savage forces were unleashed in both of the men as sparks flew like so many dancing fireflies from their clanging metal blades.  
  
Thunder cracked outside, a brilliant flash of lightning illuminating the dark sky in a majestic fork.  
  
Solo's opponent grinned horribly as he suddenly leapt down upon the Spaniard, sword gleaming with an unearthly light. Solo lost ground as he stumbled backwards, trying to defend himself against the terrible giant, who was fighting like a mad dog despite his wound.  
  
The stone house was soon reduced to rubble with the wild blows of the swords, and all that remained in the end was one wall with a staircase rising to nowhere.  
  
Solo knew he was outmatched, and retreated further up the stairs. But his opponent was merciless, following him with a wicked smile on his face.  
  
Une was paralyzed with fear, crouching by a falling wall and watching the desperate battle -- Solo versus the wounded giant, their battling forms sillhouetted against an electric sky.  
  
The two battling men merely hung in the space at the top of the stairs. Solo could retreat no further, he realized, as he looked around at the long drop beneath him.  
  
Seizing his chance, the giant ran him through.  
  
A brilliant forked tongue of lightning seared across the stormy sky, illuminating the dramatic scene at the top of the staircase, making everything seem to go by in slow motion.  
  
Solo gasped, sagging to his knees, the Samurai sword he had once clenched in his hands falling three stories down to the ground.  
  
Une let out a scream as she watched Solo try to rise. The victorious man roughly grabbed his hair, pulling him close and up to eye level.  
  
"The Highlander..." he rasped. "Where is he?" Solo's blade had now turned his voice to a metallic gargle.  
  
"You're too late," Solo spat defiantly, ignoring his wounds. "I have prepared him just for you, Khushrenada."  
  
The Khushrenada threw Solo to the ground. "You waste your time, fool. He is nothing." For the first time, he noticed Une, a wicked grin spreading across his terrible face. "Who is the woman?"  
  
"She's mine!" Solo demanded.  
  
The Khushrenada laughed, the sound blending in with the peals of thunders that came from the black clouds above them. "Not for much longer."  
  
Solo smirked and spat in the Khushrenada's face. "I can't hear you, you lowly bastard," he said in a tone of mock-sweetness. "What's the matter with your voice?"  
  
The Khushrenada roared in anger, raising his weapon high above his head.  
  
"There can be only one," he said, bringing the sword down upon Solo's neck in one quick, surprisingly graceful motion.  
  
Solo's head fell to the floor beneath his corpse, then rolled off the edge and landed three stories below, just a few feet from his sword.  
  
The Khushrenada laughed wickedly as a shimmering cloud of energy engulfed him. He roared in something between triumph and pain as all of Solo's knowledge, skill, and insight transferred into his own body.  
  
When the last of the Quickening had disappeared, he kicked the corpse disdainfully off of the stairs. Turning, he stared down at Une, shivering in a huddled mass by the crumbled wall. His pitiless eyes burned into her as he began to advance on the poor woman.   
  
But the next second, the remaining wall gave way, taking the staircase with it. The Khushrenada let out a cry of surprise and disappeared beneath the mass of timber and stone.  
  
There was a deathlike stillness as clouds of debris merged with the dark clouds above, casting a pall over the ruins.  
  
Une coughed, choking on the dust that floated through the air now, and cautiously inched forward, staring down at the debris, desperately trying to comprehend what had just happened.  
  
Without warning, the Khushrenada's hand rocketed out of the rubble, grabbing her tightly by the throat. She let out a strangled scream as the monster rose, lifting her up with him....  
  
Quatre stood in his silver room, studying Solo's hat that had been carefully placed into the glass display case.   
  
Dorothy quietly entered, standing behind him, gazing at him expectantly.  
  
But Quatre didn't move. He merely stood there for another long moment of silence, staring at the hat.  
  
"What are you looking at?" he suddenly asked in a strange, quiet tone.  
  
Dorothy smirked. "The eyes in the back of your head."  
  
Quatre rolled the eyes located in the front of his head and headed for the door. Dorothy didn't take the hint and followed him into the shop's front room.  
  
"People are asking about you, Quatre. Now what am I supposed to tell them?" Dorothy demanded.  
  
Quatre paused in his tracks for a brief moment before answering.  
  
"Tell them I'm immortal." 


	9. A New Love

Gundam Wing: The Highlander  
CHAPTER 9 - A New Love  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
Author: Ravena Kaiou  
Email: KakyuuStarLt@aol.com  
Genre: Sci-fi/Action  
Crossovers: The Highlander/Gundam Wing  
Warnings: OOC, language, violence, 4xU, 4xH.  
Disclaimer: This series is meant to be a novelization of the Highlander Movie using Gundam Wing characters. Some things have been changed a bit, others have not. Highlander belongs to Rysher Entertainment, Gundam Wing belongs to Sunrise Animation. Don't sue me! *sobs*  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
Dorothy narrowed her eyes at Quatre in frustration. Not only did he refuse to turn and face her, but the wrapped gift that he held just inside his overcoat was driving her insane with curiosity.  
  
Quatre walked through the door and into his closed antique shop, followed close behind by his assistant.  
  
"Would you listen to me for one moment, please?" Dorothy sputtered in exasperation.   
  
A slight nod.  
  
"You can't hide your feelings, from me, Quatre. I've known you for entirely too long--"  
  
Now Quatre whirled around to face her. "What feelings?" he asked incredulously.  
  
"How about loneliness?" Dorothy suggested, a hint of a smirk coming over her face as the blonde man made a desparate attempt to conceal his true reaction.  
  
"I'm not lonely," Quatre recovered quickly. "I've got everything I need, right here in this shop." He gestured towards the array of shelves and display cases that surrounded them.  
  
Dorothy shook her head violently. "You know you don't. You just refuse to let anyone love you."  
  
The shopkeeper smiled in spite of himself. "Love is for poets, my dear. I have other things to do now," he said in a softer tone than he had been using before, and leaning down to kiss the woman on the forehead. "You're such a romantic, Dorothy. You always were."  
  
Duo Maxwell was still suffering from his evening at Jolly Roger's as he sat in his car, parked outside a building somewhere in Murray Hill. His head felt as if it was about to explode.  
  
Drawing one shaking hand up to his face, he felt the stubble that indicated his need for a shave. With a sigh, he precariously balanced a cup of coffee while trying to work an Alka-Seltzer into a small container of water, inadvertently hitting the horn with his elbow.  
  
Duo gasped in pain and grabbed his temples as the blare resounded through the neighbourhood, completely forgetting the scalding-hot coffee and water in his hands. The coffee spilled all over his groin.  
  
"Shit!" he choked, eyes watering from the pain.   
  
He was so busy trying to overcome the tears that threatened to trickle down his face that he didn't notice as Quatre entered the building he was supposed to be staking out.  
  
Hilde, clad in only a bra and panties, pushed the curtains just slightly aside to investigate the source of the sudden horn blast. She rolled her eyes as she saw Duo leap out of the car, frantically pulling at his pants and occasionally brushing at what she hoped to be a spilled drink all over the front of them.  
  
After a few moments of reflection on the detective's incompetence, she sat back down at her dressing table, finishing her makeup and brushing her hair with a slight nervous touch to all of her actions.  
  
She smiled in satisfaction as she made a final check in the mirror and slipped into a sexy black dress with stiletto boots, admiring the effect from various angles. A few shocks of her short, dark hair had fallen slightly out of place, and she quickly coaxed them back to where they had been intended to be.  
  
Hilde smoothed a few wrinkles away from her narrow waist, then inspected her appearance one last time. The overall effect was very sleek, and most importantly, very sexy.  
  
She walked out into her glass-and-chrome living room, which was openly connected to the dining area, adjusting the place settings that sat on the gorgeous table. Slightly agitated for some unknown reason, she opened the table drawer and gazed down at the pistol that lay inside.  
  
Carefully she cracked it open to make sure that it was still loaded. Setting it back down into its hiding place and closing the drawer, she walked over to a nearby cabinet. The hidden tape recorder inside was all set to go.  
  
The buzzer sounded, startling her out of her last-minute preparations and checks. The cabinet door opened as she quickly started the recorder, then closed it again, took a deep breath, and went to the front door.  
  
Through the small peephole near the top of the door, she could see that Quatre Raberba-Winner was standing outside, dressed in a suit, tie, and overcoat, holding a gift-wrapped package and a bottle.  
  
She opened the door in a cool, nonchalant manner, smiling at her guest.  
  
Quatre was the first to speak. "Good evening, Miss Schbeiker," he said warmly, grinning with a hint of mischief back at her.   
  
Hilde was taken aback as she gazed into those penetrating eyes, now fixed on her. She forgot everything; the plans, the dinner, and just stood silently for a moment, under a spell of sparkling blue that held some kind of terrible mystery deep under the surface.  
  
"Would you like to dine in the hall, or shall we step inside?" Quatre laughed.  
  
Hilde blinked, breaking away from the enchantment. "Come on in," she managed to say in an odd tone of voice.  
  
For just a second as Quatre made his way into the apartment, the two were so very close to each other that Hilde's heart began to pound madly inside her chest.  
  
"May I take your coat?" she offered, regaining some of the composure that had been lost at the greeting.  
  
Quatre shook his head absently as he looked around the apartment. "No thanks. I'll just hold onto it."  
  
Flushed, Hilde couldn't think of what to say next. She headed towards the bedroom on an impulse, wanting to escape the awkward situation as quickly as possible.  
  
"Where are you going?" Quatre asked, voice brimming with amused curiosity.  
  
"I'll be right back," Hilde stuttered. "The glasses are over there."  
  
Quatre nodded at the retreating figure and set his gift down onto the coffee table, taking off his coat and calmly sitting down on the modern chrome-and-black-leather plush couch that sat in the living room area.  
  
In the bedroom, Hilde stared at her rigid image in the dressing table's mirror.  
  
"I like your place, Hilde," Quatre called. A moment of silence passed. "You never told me what it is that you do for a living."  
  
The attractive woman watched in horror as her reflection's face went white. "I hope you know what you're doing," she whispered into the mirror. Her mind raced, searching for any answer...  
  
"I...I work for the Metropolitan Museum," she improvised, closing her eyes in a desparate attempt to calm down. What had she just gotten herself into?  
  
Back in the living room, Quatre noticed Duo through the blinds over the window.  
  
"In Acquisitions," Hilde continued.  
  
Quatre's eyes flashed. Covering the room with the ease and skill of a cat, he checked the table drawer, taking in the pistol that lay inside.  
  
"That would explain your interest in ancient weapons," he noted in a slightly cold tone of voice.  
  
His next hunch also paid off; he found a tape recorder in the cabinet.  
  
"Yes," Hilde laughed, feigning confidence. "Particularly the Samurai."  
  
Quatre didn't answer, but instead opened the bottle and once again took a seat on the sofa.  
  
Hilde finally entered, sitting down next to him, a new burst of confidence evident on her pretty face. She smoothed her skirt over her small thighs, graciously taking a glass of the enticing liquid as the man handed it to her.  
  
"Shall we have a toast?" Hilde suggested.  
  
Quatre nodded thoughtfully. "Yes."  
  
He raised his glass and cleared his throat. "To the child going to bed, and the man on the stairs who climbs to his dying love in her high room..."  
  
Hilde was transfixed by his words.  
  
"...Let us hope that tonight, he shall find no dying, but his love alive and warm," he finished.  
  
"That's beautiful," Hilde said in admiration. "What was it?"  
  
The two clinked glasses.  
  
"Dylan Thomas," Quatre answered, taking a sip of his drink.  
  
Hilde drew the glass up to her lips and swallowed a small amount, blinking as it hit her throat. She didn't know quite what it was, but she liked it quite a bit.  
  
Seeing her smile, Quatre felt obliged to comment. "Brandy," he said. "Bottled in 1783."  
  
She was taken aback. "1783? Jesus, that's old," she breathed.  
  
Quatre smiled fondly. "1783 was a very good year. Mozart wrote his Great Mass...the Montgolfier brothers went up in the first hot-air balloon...and England finally recognized the independence of the United States."  
  
"Is that right?" Hilde asked, amazed at his knowledge of history. Who was this man who fought scarred giants, drank two hundred year old brandy, and ran an antique shop on Hudson Street?  
  
It seemed that he was staring into her soul, seducing her in unfamiliar ways.   
  
She suddenly noticed the package. "What's that?" she asked.  
  
"It's for you."  
  
"Can I open it?"  
  
Quatre leaned back and shrugged. "If you like."  
  
Hilde picked it up and anxiously tore off the wrapping, then found herself staring down at a book.   
  
The blood drained from her face as she read its title.  
  
"A Metallurgical History of Ancient Sword-making," the writing across the cover said. "By Hilde Schbeiker."  
  
"You bastard," she choked, gripping the book tightly.  
  
Quatre remained calm. "It's odd," he commented. "Your biography doesn't mention the Met. It says you work for the police in Forensics."  
  
A sinking feeling overcame Hilde.  
  
"Are you and Yuy trying to set me up for something?" Quatre demanded.  
  
Angrily, Hilde rose and moved away from him, gazing out the window. "I don't work for Yuy," she hissed.  
  
Quatre nodded thoughtfully. "Then why's that hippie-reject policeman sitting outside, watching your apartment?"  
  
Indeed, as she peered desparately through the blinds, she could see Duo sitting faithfully in his unmarked car.  
  
"Surely you remember him," Quatre continued. "Yuy's had him tailing me."  
  
Hilde knew she was trapped. She sat close to the table containing the pistol and watched him intently as he refilled his glass, drinking as if nothing had happened. The silence that permeated the atmosphere in the room was deadly.  
  
"What are you going to do?" Hilde asked after a moment.  
  
"The question is, what are you going to do?" Quatre chuckled as she frowned. "Are you going to turn off the tape? Or are you going to shoot me with the .38 first?"  
  
Hilde shook her head. "You're a real piece of work," she sighed, crossing to the recorder and ripping out the tape. She returned to the table, removed the pistol, and emptied it, casting it aside without a second thought.  
  
"I'm not looking for a killer," she confessed. "I'm looking for a sword."  
  
Quatre blinked at her in wonder.  
  
"The one used on Fasil," she explained quickly. "I found pieces of it under the Garden."  
  
Quatre nodded and stood, getting ready to leave. But Hilde was adamant as she blocked his way.   
  
"I only want to see the Samurai," she pleaded.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Hilde sighed and looked just to the left of the man. "Because it's not even supposed to exist."  
  
Quatre raised an eyebrow.  
  
"I dated the pieces of the blade at 600 B.C. The metal has been folded over two hundred times," she told him. "The Japanese didn't even start making swords that way until the Middle Ages."  
  
Hilde's eyes were alight with her discovery. "So where the hell did it come from, then?" she asked, her energy uncompromising. "If I could verify the existence of such a weapon, it'd be like finding a 747 made a thousand years before the Wright brothers flew!"  
  
She paused for a moment and smirked. "With a find like that, I could get onto 'Good Morning, America,'" she said drolly.  
  
Quatre shook his head. "This is crazy," he laughed as he ignored the woman and headed for the door.  
  
Furious, Hilde spun him around. Now face-to-face, Quatre could smell her perfume for the first time, and realized how crazy it was driving him...  
  
"I want some straight answers, Winner," Hilde said in a quiet tone.  
  
"Don't you ever think about anything except what you want?" Quatre whispered back.  
  
Before he could stop himself, he had a handful of her soft, shining dark hair, pulling her mouth onto his, kissing her passionately.  
  
Hilde was caught by surprise as she jerked back away from him. Quatre seemed to regain himself as what he had just done finally sunk in. He quickly released her, softly touching her cheek before he left.  
  
A breathless Hilde sat down and allowed herself to sink into the couch as the front door slammed.  
  
Quatre's footsteps echoed off of concrete as he descended a rear stairwell of the building. He stopped on a landing, shutting his eyes as memories came flooding back to him.  
  
All in a single flash, Quatre remembered how he and Une had left Jedburgh after the attack and moved east, settling on a farm just outside Montrose. Years became decades as Une changed, her youth fading while Quatre remained strong and healthy, never once leaving her side.  
  
And now Une lay in his arms, breathing her last and feebly clutching a sheepskin doll. She reached an arthritic hand up to stroke her husband's ageless cheek.  
  
"My beautiful man," she rasped. "my husband."  
  
Quatre nodded, fighting for control as he watched her eyes fill with tears. "I am that, my love," he whispered, smoothing her grey hair with a gentle hand.  
  
"I have...never really known..." Une breathed, then winced in pain.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Why you stayed," she answered, her pain evident in her speech.  
  
A single tear escaped the Highlander's eyes. "Because I love you as much now as the day I first met you," he choked desparately, cradling her head and holding her tightly as if to keep her in this world for just a little longer.  
  
"And I love you," Une mumbled, tears spilling down the crags and valleys of her wrinkled cheeks as she turned her face away. "I don't want to die. I want to stay with you forever."  
  
Quatre's soul felt as if it were being tormented in the very pits of Hell. "I want that too," he whispered as he kissed the top of her head.  
  
"Will you do something for me, Quatre?" Une asked after a moment.  
  
"Anything, blossom."  
  
Une's breathing became even more laboured as she continued to fade. "In years to come, will you light a candle and remember me on my birthday?" she asked.  
  
"Aye, love, I will," Quatre vowed.  
  
The ancient woman's tears increased in number. "I wanted to have your children," she wept, her body sagging in his arms as she clung to him desparately.  
  
"They would have been strong and fine," Quatre assured her in as husky a voice as he could manage.  
  
Une smiled weakly. "Don't see me, Quatre," she said, struggling to speak. "Let me die in peace."  
  
Quatre's heart shattered as he watched his wife close her eyes, her breathing intensifying.  
  
"Where are we?" she gasped.  
  
Quatre smiled through the tears that had escaped him. "We're in the Highlands," he whispered to her. "Where else would we be? Running down a mountainside..."  
  
Une smiled, and for just a moment, she was young again.  
  
"...The sun is shining, and it's not cold," Quatre continued. "We'll swim in the loch, maybe. You've got your sheepskins on, and the boots I made for you."  
  
Une took a final shuddering breath, and then the rising and falling of her breast was replaced by stillness. Quatre squeezed her tighter, a river of tears now spilling freely from his eyes.  
  
"When I met you at the fair, you said I was all muck and muscle. Then you smiled...what a beauty," he whispered fondly, his grief overwhelming him. He gently lowered her to the floor, closing her eyes and taking the doll from her hand. He kissed her cheek softly for the final time.  
  
"Good night, my bonnie Une," he sobbed. "You were always beautiful to me."  
  
Later, he had laid Une to rest at sunset on a hill above the farm, his horse faithfully standing under a tree, watching the sad scene.  
  
Drawing his claymore, Quatre sank its blade deep into the soft brown earth, marking his love's grave.  
  
He picked up Solo's Samurai, eyes raking the heavens, pleading for some deliverance from his sorrow.  
  
"You were right, haggis," he said quietly. "There will never be another."  
  
He grimly led his horse down the hillside, his claymore left behind, standing erect in the earth. Carved into the blade, a single name glowed in the dying sun.  
  
"MacLeod." 


	10. Beware The Past

Gundam Wing: The Highlander  
CHAPTER 10 - Beware the Past  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
Author: Ravena Kaiou  
Email: KakyuuStarLt@aol.com  
Genre: Sci-fi/Action  
Crossovers: The Highlander/Gundam Wing  
Warnings: OOC, language, hints of 4xUne  
Disclaimer: This series is meant to be a novelization of the Highlander Movie using Gundam Wing characters. Some things have been changed a bit, others have not. Highlander belongs to Rysher Entertainment, Gundam Wing belongs to Sunrise Animation. Don't sue me! *sobs*  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
Quatre sat dumbly in his sunken living room, surrounded by the past that he so desparately had tried to escape. Everywhere he looked, objects from a distant place and time intensified his isolation, triggering a cacophany of voices and sounds that echoed in his brain, gathering in volume with each repetition.  
  
"My beautiful man, my husband..." Une's dying voice called over a cheering crowd...a shot of cannon-fire was punctuated by Relena's cries of "Devil! Devil!"...police sirens howled as an officer spoke of how a poor victim's head had been chopped off two nights ago..."600 B.C. It's not supposed to exist," Brenda's voice said quietly, nearly drowned out by the horns in the background...now a baby cried, and he could hear himself saying to Dorothy, "Tell them I'm immortal"...pipes and drums played a lively Highland tune as a metallic voice gurgled "There can be only one!"...  
  
It finally became too much for Quatre. In a torrent of anger and sorrow, he picked up a vase, whirled around in fury,and threw it against the wall behind him. The frail porcelain shattered into a million pieces.  
  
He remembered other times that the same frustration had been vented, though all were lost among the sea of previous centuries he had lived through.  
  
Today it was the vase. In the 1880's, it had been a marble statue. A wine bottle had been destroyed when it came in contact with a French castle wall in the 1700s, and finally, the beer glass he had hurled at his attackers in the Scottish tavern.  
  
The explosion of pottery fragments seemed to reverberate for longer than Quatre thought could be possible in the stillness of the room.  
  
The blonde man struggled to control his feelings as he watched the final shards hit the floor. Sinking back down into the couch, he stared out of the window, trying to ignore his shaking hands.  
  
Totally oblivious to the dramatic scene occurring on Hudson Street, Lieutenant Heero Yuy and Detective Duo Maxwell stood at Tony's burger stand on 59th and Lexington, munching aimlessly on their lunch. Crowds of locals and tourists surged around them, their chatter lost in the discordant blare of car horns and curses that emanated from a traffic jam.  
  
The owner of this stand, Tony, was a large man, who wore an apron and a baseball cap nearly every day. This day was no exception. As he ate another plastic fork-ful of his coleslaw, he snickered over the bold headline of the newspaper.  
  
"Head Hunter 3 -- Cops Zero," the author had aptly titled the feature.  
  
"Hey, Yuy. Have you read what it says here?" Tony asked his friend slyly.  
  
Heero rolled his eyes. He had neither the time nor the patience for this today. "Come on, Tony," he sighed. "You know cops can't read."  
  
Tony ignored his response and checked the story again. "Hey, what does 'incompetent' mean?" he cackled.  
  
Yuy swallowed a few comments with a bite of his burger as he eyed Maxwell.  
  
"The damn mayor's calling my apartment at two in the morning," Heero grumbled. Duo nodded sympathetically as he finished his hamburger, crumpled up the wrapper, and tossed it into a nearby trash can.  
  
The two men got into their green Dodge, Duo, at the wheel, firing up the engine.  
  
"Hey, Heero! What does 'baffled' mean?" Tony asked again without looking up from the paper.  
  
The Dodge peeled off into traffic.  
  
"So you do see him every once in a while?" Heero asked, strolling about the antique shop and occasionally pausing to look some relics over.  
  
Heero and Duo's ride had taken them to Quatre's antique shop, and, much to Dorothy's dismay, the secretary's desk. The middle-aged blonde woman eyed the lieutenant nervously.  
  
"Rarely," she answered after a moment.  
  
Heero nodded. "How do you reach him?"  
  
"I don't."  
  
Yuy's interest peaked as he sat down across from Dorothy. "He kind of...keeps you in the dark, right?" he asked, then answered his own question after a moment. "All right, Miss--or, is it Mrs...?"  
  
"Miss. Dorothy Catalonia," the woman said, suspicion edging on her every word. "Why?"  
  
Heero shrugged. "Just curious. I'm a bachelor myself, you know." He rose and made his way to the door. "If you see Winner, have him call me, okay?"   
  
Dorothy nodded. "Okay, Sergeant."  
  
"Lieutenant," Heero said with a small smile as he left.  
  
Meanwhile, in the Hall of Records, Hilde found herself faced with the task of searching through a file labeled "Certificates of Birth, 1941-48."  
  
She flipped through a few papers absently, then found the photostat she had been looking for.  
  
"Quatre Raberba-Winner," she breathed as her eyes scanned the yellowing document. She learned that he had been born at 11:17 in the morning on October 22nd, 1945 at Mercy Hospital in Syracuse. His mother was Quatrine Raberba-Winner, and her attending physician had been Dr. J.  
  
Hilde's eyes sparkled triumphantly as she replaced the file and headed out the door.  
  
The man simply known as Dr. J, now in his early eighties, thumbed through various files in his cluttered study. Hilde sat nearby on a sofa, shifting uncomfortably as his gaze turned to her long, gorgeous legs once again.  
  
She breathed a sigh of relief as he turned his attention back to the files. "Here we go," he said, glancing at a piece of paper. "Quatrine Raberba-Winner. I was still practicing in Syracuse at the time."   
  
A pause and a chuckle.  
  
"We didn't get many of these."  
  
Hilde's curiosity got the better of her. "Many of what?"  
  
"Unwed mothers," Dr. J said, taking a moment to ogle the woman's legs again. "Nowadays, that's no big deal. But back then in Syracuse, it was a stoning offense."  
  
He chuckled again and adjusted his glasses.  
  
"So? What happened?" Hilde prompted the old man.  
  
"She had the baby. Then she died."  
  
"Quatre was illegitimate, then?"  
  
The doctor nodded. "Sure, he was illegitimate. For about a minute and a half." Sensing Hilde's confusion, he continued his explanation. "He died right after she did."  
  
"He died?" Hilde asked, stunned.  
  
A bit later, Hilde got out of a yellow cab at 42nd and 5th, dressed for the chilly weather in a coat, fur hat, gloves, and scarf. She moved briskly through the lunchtime crowds and walked up the steps leading to the Public Library.  
  
Inside, Trowa Barton sat at his computer console. Here he was the chief archivist of New York State.   
  
He eyed his old friend with curiosity as she perched on a stool at his elbow, coat, hat and carf draped over her arm.  
  
"I did what you asked, Hilde," he said. "And do I have something weird for you."  
  
Hilde raised an eyebrow.  
  
"The computer will display certain documents on microfilm," he explained, indicating the second screen that sat before them. "They'll pop up there."  
  
"Trowa, what's weird?" Hilde asked impatiently.  
  
Trowa entered a bit of data, then leaned back in his chair. "This guy Winner's signature. He's the legal owner of the property on Hudson Street."  
  
Hilde nodded. "I know that."  
  
The man suddenly became a bit touchy. "He could have been renting," he huffed. "Or leasing. You don't know."  
  
Hilde sighed. Sometimes talking to Trowa was a real pain in the ass.  
  
A document appeared on the second screen. "Okay, here we go," Trowa continued calmly. "This is the original deed to the Hudson Street property. Dated 1796. Check out the signature."  
  
Onscreen, a dramatic scrawl read 'Adrian Montague.'  
  
"Who's Adrian Montague?" Hilde asked.  
  
"The first owner of Hudson Street." Trowa paused and checked the computer printout. "An English immigrant."  
  
Freezing with the chill that pervaded the air both inside and out, Hilde put her coat back on. "Can we cut to the chase, Trowa?" she asked boredly.  
  
Trowa sniffed. "I'm taking you through a process here, Hilde," he said in a hurt tone. "I spent hours on this, okay?"  
  
Hilde shivered in the cold.  
  
"Adrian Montague left his property to Hamilton Kopp," Trowa said, cracking his knuckles. "Even in the old days, if somebody left you something, you had to sign a receipt."  
  
The second screen now showed a recepit signed 'Hamilton Kopp.'  
  
"This shows that Kopp actually received Montague's inheritance," he explained, a small smirk coming over his face. "Look at Kopp's signature. Familiar, no?"  
  
Hilde nodded. "It looks a little like the first guy's...Montague."  
  
"Brilliant," Trowa chirped, then returned to the console. "The next thing I did was see if I could find a Hamilton Kopp who died at birth some time before the receipt was signed by Montague."  
  
"Why?" Hilde interrupted.  
  
"Logical minds search for connections," Trowa said, tapping his forehead. "And I've got a logical mind. The Winner kid died at birth, right?"  
  
A death certificate for Hamilton Kopp flashed across the screen.  
  
"Here you go. Hamilton Kopp. Born January 16th, 1819. Died at birth...twenty years before he allegedly signed the receipt inheriting Hudson Street from Montague."  
  
A chill went down Hilde's spine, but it wasn't from the cold. "It's a coincidence," she muttered. It's got to be a different Kopp."  
  
Trowa grinned. "Think so? Watch this."  
  
He typed in a few more data fragments, then looked at the second screen again, which now showed a receipt signed 'Alfred Burgess.'   
  
"Kopp died and left his worldly goods to one Alfred Burgess. In turn, Burgess left his possessions to Wallingford Benoit."  
  
A new receipt read 'Wallington Benoit.'  
  
"And Benoit left his stuff to your guy. Quatre Raberba-Winner," Trowa finished, swiveling in his chair as a receipt signed 'Quatre Raberba-Winner' came into view.   
  
"In all five instances, Montague through Winner, I found a death certificate for a kid with the same name, who died at birth...years before he pretended to sign for his inheritance." Trowa paused dramatically, then looked at Hilde. "Still think it's a coincidence?"  
  
Hilde replaced her gloves and put her fur hat back on. Never in her life had she been so cold.   
  
"Jesus, Trowa, isn't there any heat in here?" she complained, sure that her teeth were chattering.  
  
Trowa shook his head. "Nope. Heat's bad for the circuits." He tapped a few more keys. "And now, just in case there's any doubt..."  
  
Hilde examined the second screen as five magnified signatures came into view; Adrian Montague, Hamilton Kopp, Alfred Burgess, Wallingford Benoit, and Quatre Raberba-Winner.  
  
The man ran a second program, overlaying individual letters from the combined signatures -- T's on T's, N's on N's, and so forth down the line.  
  
Hilde's eyes widened.   
  
They were identical.  
  
Trowa spun around in his chair and rested his feet on the desk. "So what you've got here, Hilde, is a guy who's been creeping around since at least 1700. Pretending to croak every once in a while, leaving all his possessions to kids who've been corpses for years...and then assuming their identities."  
  
Hilde shook her head slowly. "It's not possible," she whispered. 


	11. A Holy Intrusion

Gundam Wing: The Highlander  
CHAPTER 11 - A Holy Intrusion  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
Author: Ravena Kaiou  
Email: KakyuuStarLt@aol.com  
Genre: Sci-fi/Action  
Crossovers: The Highlander/Gundam Wing  
Warnings: OOC, language, violence, mention of rape, hints of 4xUne.  
Disclaimer: This series is meant to be a novelization of the Highlander Movie using Gundam Wing characters. Some things have been changed a bit, others have not. Highlander belongs to Rysher Entertainment, Gundam Wing belongs to Sunrise Animation. Don't sue me! *sobs*  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
Alex eyed the newscaster's heavily made-up face that flashed across the television screen, ignoring the derelicts snoring in his hotel lobby.  
  
"Public outrage mounts this hour as New York's finest seem powerless to stop the head hunter," the woman said, her stoic journalist voice tinged with just a hint of what could be excitement.  
  
The lobby echoed with the sound of a small bell as the elevator arrived. The ancient doors creaked open, revealing its only passenger.  
  
The Khushrenada stepped out of the musty compartment, his oblong case tucked safely under his arm as he crossed the lobby.   
  
Alex raised an eyebrow. The eleven o'clock news was just playing itself out, and this guy was checking out?  
  
"Hey, Rockefeller," he called. "How did you like Lucrezia? She said you were kinda kinky."  
  
The Khushrenada stopped dead in his tracks, staring at him with those cold, malicious eyes.  
  
Alex swallowed hard. Something about this guy definitely wasn't right. But he wasn't about to look like a wuss in front of any of his customers, even if they were half-drunk anyway.   
  
"Watch your ass out there, dude," he cackled. "Don't let the head hunter getcha!"  
  
The hulking giant of a man stalked up to him, staring with his hellish eyes at the young derelict behind the counter who shrunk back just a few inches from his face.  
  
"Don't speak to me," Khushrenada rasped.  
  
"Dude, look, I didn't mean--"  
  
"Don't ever speak to me. Do you understand?"  
  
Alex nodded fearfully, watching as the man exited through the grimy glass doors. "Hope you get your head chopped off, asshole!" he yelled after him as soon as he was sure that he was out of earshot.  
  
One of the drunks stretched out on a filthy sofa next to the counter began to laugh. "He told you, Alex!" the man snorted.  
  
"Go to hell," Alex spat angrily.  
  
Triton Bloom drove down 23rd street in his souped up Mustang, passing by various storefronts and prostitutes and singing along to the obscene song playing on the radio.  
  
Wiry and dressed in fatigues, a tee shirt, forage cap and boots, one could tell this man's interests without seeing the gun magazines and assault weapons that littered his car. Headlights reflected in his unnecessary-for-night sunglasses and bounced off of the handle of the Uzi machine-pistol resting on the dash.   
  
"Oh, she jumped in bed and she covered her head, bet I couldn't find her," Bloom warbled as he turned down 2nd and began to gather speed. "Oh, her titties were pink as a red rooster's--"  
  
He braked suddenly, revving backwards and fishtailing to a halt as he stared back down the alley he had just passed a minute ago.  
  
His eyes had to be playing tricks on him.   
  
A black man and a white man were battling ferociously with swords.  
  
Bloom leapt out of the car, taking care to grab his Uzi. He wanted a piece of this action.  
  
Ahmad slashed at the Khushrenada with his sword once again. He could not lose this fight. He could not let this demon win.  
  
"What the hell is going on?" Bloom shouted, thunderstruck by the scene.  
  
The two men continued to hammer at each other, taking no notice of the intruder's words.   
  
Triton narrowed his eyes and slammed a clip into the Uzi, then took aim. But before he could fire at anything, a final stroke of the Khushrenada's sword cleanly severed Ahmad's head from his body.  
  
Horrified, Triton began firing. Five slugs tore into the victor's chest, flinging him against a fence. He watched in satisfaction as he fell, then disappeared down the alley.  
  
A small crowd began to gather around the avenue. A vintage Chevy pulled up to the curb as the old couple inside made a desparate attempt to see what was going on.  
  
Meanwhile, Triton crept down the dark alley and knelt down next to Ahmad. No pulse. This guy was a goner.  
  
Suddenly, a huge figure lunged at him with a sword, driving the blade through Bloom's stomach. Screaming, he fell, dropping his Uzi to the ground.  
  
The Khushrenada had better things to do than concern himself with the mortal he had just run through. He hunched over Ahmad's body, grinning wickedly.  
  
The crowd on 2nd Avenue was in an uproar. Street lights began to dim. Windows in buildings exploded without warning as neon signs erupted and manhole covers blasted skyward.  
  
A bullet-riddled Khushrenada staggered out of the alley, cursing and wielding his sword. The bystanders scattered in terror.  
  
The giant looked up sharply like an animal sensing his prey as he heard the distant wail of police sirens. He had to find a ride, and fast.  
  
That's when he spotted the Chevy, still idle at the curb.  
  
Bellowing, he charged, swinging his sword and opening the Chevy's roof like a tin can with the deadly blade. He pried it open with his bare hands and saw the old couple staring up at what used to be the top of the car.  
  
The next thing the two knew, they were airborne, hurled mercilessly to the sidewalk.  
  
The Khushrenada leapt inside and took off down the avenue, tires shrieking madly, roof flapping.   
  
Heero Yuy and Duo Maxwell walked down the hallways of the hospital, shoving reporters aside.   
  
"Did he see the head hunter?" a thousand voices clamoured. "What's the victim's name? Come on!"  
  
Heero rolled his eyes as he and his partner stepped into the elevator, watching relievedly as the metal doors clicked shut, separating them from the insanity that was the press.  
  
"Heero, I saw the corpse," Duo said after a moment. "The black guy was the same dude who was with Winner. I spent the night with them, for Christ's sake!"  
  
Heero shot him a glare. "Right, Maxwell. Drunk out of your skull."  
  
Embarassed, Duo checked his shoes as the lieutenant got a cigar going.  
  
"Twenty people were there and nobody saw a goddamn thing," Heero sighed, taking a moment's pause to exhale a puff of smoke. "That's New York for you. I just wonder if this guy Bloom is on drugs."  
  
Duo shook his head. "No. Some kind of survival nut--"  
  
"Survival nut?"  
  
"Yeah. Into guns. Former Marine, Vietnam veteran. I checked with his ex-commanding officer. Slightly paranoid, but definitely reliable."  
  
The two men fell silent as the elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open. They walked down the hall, their shoes clacking on the sterile white hospital tile floor.  
  
Triton Bloom sat propped up in bed, his abdomen heavily bandaged. An intravenous antibiotic drip had been set up in his right arm.  
  
Heero rapped his knuckles on the door frame, then motioned for his partner to follow him inside. "How're you doing, kid?" he asked.  
  
Triton snorted. "Okay, I guess, for a guy who got three feet of steel crammed up his ass. How're you doing, old man?"  
  
Heero ignored the sarcasm and continued with his interrogation. "Duo here tells me you got a glimpse of the guy who stabbed you."  
  
Bloom broke into an all-out laugh, then winced at the pain that radiated through his stomach. "Are you kidding me, man?"  
  
Duo shoved Quatre Raberba-Winner's mug shot in front of the witness's face. "Is this him?" he asked hopefully.  
  
Triton took a glance at the picture. "Nope."  
  
Heero was crestfallen. "Come on, Bloom. It was dark in that alley," he pleaded.  
  
Triton's eyes flashed. "The freak was stabbing me to death! I'll never forget his face," he screeched. "He had a scar right across his throat."  
  
He tapped the photo. "And that sure as hell ain't him."  
  
Lieutenant Yuy sagged onto the bed.  
  
"Depressed?" Bloom smirked.  
  
Yuy shrugged.  
  
"You don't know shit about depressed," Triton scorned, sitting up painfully. "I got me a .357, a trunkful of shotguns, three big-bore battle rifles and ammo out my ass. I can't protect myself. I ain't safe!" he shouted, then winced and lowered his voice again. "That weirdo with the sword, man. He got up and stabbed me after I put enough lead in him to drop a rhino."  
  
Triton collapsed back onto the bed. "Don't talk to me about depressed."  
  
Heero rose wearily. "Could you work with an artist and come up with a picture of the guy?" he asked.  
  
Triton nodded. "Sure."  
  
Heero and Duo began to head for the door.  
  
"Hey, cop," Triton called after him.  
  
Heero turned for a moment and looked at the witness expectantly.  
  
"I know you think I'm nuts," he sighed. "But there's something else I gotta tell you."  
  
Heero and Duo made their way to the exit, Triton's words still echoing in their minds.  
  
"Just say we got an eyewitness," Heero sighed, seeing the clamouring reporters that awaited them outside the hospital. Nothing about swordfights in the twentieth century, guys glowing in the dark, or soldiers crawling around in the snow at Valley Forge looking for Washington's wooden teeth. Do I make myself clear?"  
  
Duo nodded as the two of them walked into the uproar.  
  
Rush-hour crowds swarmed over the poor news vendor's stand to buy a copy of the latest edition of the Post. A composite of the Khushrenada adorned the front page, with 'Have You Seen This Man?' written in bold type above it.  
  
"Extra! Cops release head hunter's picture! Head hunter revealed!" he shouted over the noise of the crowd.  
  
Oblivious to the chaos going on outside, Quatre dropped a few coins into the donation box next to the altar of St. Patrick's Cathedral.  
  
Beside the altar was the very thing he had come for; a collection of candles, some burning brightly, some standing with blackened wicks, anxiously awaiting their turn to be lit.   
  
Soaring columns and stained glass windows only added to the already-tranquil atmosphere that haunted the beautiful cathedral. Priests quietly glided down rows of pews, being careful not to interrupt the people who knelt in prayer.  
  
Quatre smiled as he lit the first candle. "For you, my bonnie Une," he whispered. "Happy birthday."  
  
He turned his attention to another wax pillar, wistfully gazing at the next dancing flame. "And you, Solo Ramirez," he said quietly. "Take care of her, you overdressed haggis."  
  
Quatre moved to an empty pew and sat silently, lost in his memories of the past.  
  
His attention soon snapped out of the past as the candles in front of him blurred. The high, arched ceiling began to spin.   
  
He knew this feeling all too well.  
  
And so he was not surprised when he turned and saw the Khushrenada sitting next to him in the pew. At least, not until he saw what the villain had done to his appearance.  
  
The Khushrenada's once curly, dark hair had been shaved off, his pale complexion accentuated by punk-rock style makeup. A line of safety pins dangled menacingly from the scar across his throat as his mocking eyes roamed the church.  
  
"Ahmad is gone," he cackled. "Kastagir is gone. Only you and I remain...chatting here together on holy ground."  
  
Quatre's expression hardened. "You're revolting. What the hell do you think this is, Hallowe'en?" he hissed.  
  
"I am disguised. This way, people will not recognize me," the Khushrenada gurgled.  
  
"What do you want from me?"  
  
The Khushrenada's cruel mouth contorted itself into a grin. "Your head."  
  
By now, Quatre was a coiled spring. Two nuns crossed themselves and began to walk down the long, red-carpeted aisle  
  
"And the Prize," he added. As the nuns passed by, the leapt out of the pew, making an obscene face and cackling maniacally. "Happy Hallowe'en, ladies!" he bellowed.  
  
Scared witless, the two nuns left in a hurry.  
  
The Khushrenada turned his attention back to Quatre. "It was destined that the board would be cleared for the real players."  
  
"I feel something coming from you," Quatre answered quietly. "You're trying to conceal it from me. What is it?"  
  
"I conceal nothing."  
  
Quatre's glittering blue eyes fixed themselves onto the Khushrenada's safety-pinned throat scar.  
  
"Ramirez's blade did not cut deeply enough. He was right about you. You're slime," the blonde man spat.  
  
The Khushrenada's voice took on an even harsher tone. "Ramirez was an effeminate slob. He died on his knees."  
  
Gloating, the giant remembered the scene that had unfolded so many years ago.  
  
There he had been, clutching Une's neck, rising up from the ruins of the sixteenth-century stone house. Screaming, she struggled to break free of his iron grip, but it was hopeless.  
  
Throwing the pretty woman down, he had ripped off her clothing, ignoring her broken cries that no one was even around to hear.  
  
"I took his head and raped his woman before his body was even cold!" the Khushrenada screeched gleefully.  
  
He turned, eyeballing Quatre's stricken face, understanding dawning in his lurid eyes.  
  
"I see," Khushrenada growled. "Ramirez lied. The woman was not his. She was yours."  
  
He leered at Quatre. "And she never told you? I wonder why. Perhaps I gave her something you never could, and secretly she yearned for my return."  
  
Quatre leapt to his feet, shaking with fury. "You sick bastard!" he managed to spit out between his clenched teeth.  
  
The anger became too much for him. He lunged for the sword inside his coat as the Khushrenada's hands flew up in mock horror.  
  
"Uh-uh," Khushrenada said, waggling his finger from side to side teasingly. "Holy ground, Highlander. Remember what Ramirez taught you."  
  
Quatre's eyes flashed. "You can't stay in here forever," he warned.  
  
His opponent smiled. "You're weak, Highlander," he scoffed. "You will always be weaker than I."  
  
"I'll be out front. Waiting," Quatre said, getting up and making his exit through the heavy wooden front doors.  
  
Peals of metallic laughter rippled through the church, disturbing the worshippers' prayers.  
  
A bald priest approached the Khushrenada. "This is the house of God. People are trying to pray," he informed the man respectfully.  
  
The Khushrenada kissed the priest's hand noisily and dropped to his knees. "Forgive me, father," he laughed. "I am a worm."  
  
He patted the priest's head, then headed for the back exit, hobnail boots thudding against the aisle floor, safety pins jangling at his throat.  
  
"I have something to say," he called out. "It's better to burn out then to fade away!" With that, he leapt out into the night, the door slamming shut behind him.  
  
The poor priest stood in shock for a moment, then crossed himself and hurried away. 


End file.
